


Borough War || Newsies fic

by herhideousheart



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Based on Newsies (1992), Based on Newsies!: the Musical, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Fist Fights, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Other, The Refuge (Newsies), Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 40,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28194441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herhideousheart/pseuds/herhideousheart
Summary: Cass Kelly was fifteen years old when she, her brother, and Spot Conlon led their newsies through a strike in July of 1899. After they reached a compromise with Pulitzer, everything died down. Everything was quiet.That is, until she recieves a message from a Bronx newsie three months afterwards.
Relationships: Albert DaSilva & Racetrack Higgins, Kid Blink/Other(s), Sarah Jacobs/Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Smalls (Newsies)/Other(s), Spot Conlon/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 7





	1. chapter 1.

"Cass, wake up," Race smacks my face (yes, smacks it), and I open my eyes, smacking him back. Next thing I know, I'm on the floor on the other side of our bunk, nursing the right side of my face.

"You're an ass, you know that?" I mutter, pushing myself onto my feet and rubbing my right eyebrow, glaring.

"Wake up next time, I won't push you." He smirks, and I stick my tongue out at him before starting to head into the bathroom to wash my face.

That is, until Kid Blink knocks into me, sending both of us tumbling down the stairs. 

"Jesus christ, my face has had too much contact with this floor today," I groan, rubbing the back of my head. Blink stands up, laughing, and I push myself up again. 

"Blame Smalls. She pushed me." He says, prompting a, "Did not! It was Albert!" from the bathroom. 

"Smalls is a damn liar!" From the far corner of the huge (yet somehow still crowded) room that all of us share.

I roll my eyes, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my brown pants.

"Alright, I'm getting my shitty cup of coffee." I walk outside into the crisp November air. It blows against my flannel and my hair, causing slight water in my eyes. I blink it away before arriving to the nuns' cart, where they're currently waiting for the newsies. 

I wait for Mike and Ike, deciding to not visit the nuns alone. 

I made that mistake once.

The coffee, like I said, is god awful. The bread is like small rocks, and it was nothing against the nuns, they were doing their best; it just didn't digest well for anyone. It was almost comical how bad the food was. Again, nothing ahainst the nuns.

Jack, as always, leads our "little" group of newsies up to the distribution center. Since the strike, we've had to take in at least thirty more newsies, a majority of them eleven or younger. The lodge was overcrowded and some of us had to give up bunks, but honestly? I don't think any of us minded. 

"100 papes." Jack slams his money on the counter, as always. He sits on the steps next to Boots, reminding me of the strike back in July. I look back at the window, realizing it's my turn to pay for my papes. 

"100 papes." I flick my money over to the old weasel behind the counter, while Morris Delancey slams my stack in return. I nod once, taking them and leaning against the wall near Jack and Boots. 

"Baby born with three arms? Did Spot give birth or somethin'?" Jack mutters, causing me to snort in laughter. He smiles, continuing to read headlines in the pape. 

"Cards!" I hear my newsie name, looking up to see Les Jacobs running towards me at a full sprint, as he does usually every morning. Davey, his older brother, follows behind him, smiling softly at his brother being his normal childish self. 

"G'morning, Les," I tip my hat to him, and he holds out his hand with a small light brown square in the center of his palm. 

"I got you a caramel!" He smiles widely, causing my eyes to widen and my heart to melt. No way did this kid get me a caramel from his teacher. No way could I take this.

Back in August or September, Davey and Les went back to school, but still sold on weekends and after their classes.

"Oh my gosh! Thank you so much, Les!" I smile, taking the squard lightly in my own free hand. Les smiles and wraps his arms around my middle before hopping away to bother other newsies and play. 

I let my eyes dart around until they land on a certain boy with a crutch; common knowledge among the newsies also reminded me that he had always loved sweets. 

"Hey, Crutchie!" I jog over to the fluffy-haired boy, who smiles like sunshine as I land next to him. 

"Morning, Cass!"

"Hold out your hand." I tell him with a small smile, and with a confused look, he does. I place the caramel squarein his palm, closing his fingers around it. 

"Caramel square." I smile, and Crutchie looks surprised, but smiles, not questioning it. 

"Thank you!" He places it in his pocket, and before I turn on my heel, I put a hand on his shoulder. 

"Good luck sellin'!" 

"You too!"

I catch up with Smalls and Blink, walking with them to 'Hattan's side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Spot wasn't too keen on it, but it was Jack and I's territory. As long as Jack and I kept the boys (and occasional girlsie) in check, we didn't have too many problems.

Amid calling out headlines, though, another newsie I didn't recognize ran up to me. 

"Are you Cass Kelly?" He asks, causing me to raise my eyebrows in surprise. Nothing like this ever happens, really. Only when things like the strike, or other emergencies regarding New York's newsie leaders, does this sort of thing happen. 

"Yes. Why?" I ask, my heart skipping a few beats. The boy looks about my age, and his hazel eyes are filled with fear and his voice has an edge to it. His body language tells me he's not happy to be delivering whatever news this is that he has. 

"I need you to give this message to your brother." He hands me a slip of paper. I look at it, confused. 

"Which borough? Is everything alright?" I ask a little more frantically than I mean to, and he shakes his head. 

"A 'Hattan or Brooklyn newsie jumped Sparrow."

Sparrow Jenkins is leader of the Bronx newsies, and everyone knows it. Very rarely do newsies jump other newsies; that was a job reserved only for the scabs. But the times a newsie jumped another newsie, from another borough? It was almost unheard of.

"You're from the Bronx then, yes?" I clarify, and he nods. 

"I'm Bluejay, his second." He answers, and I nod. 

"I'll get this to Jack straight away." 

"G'day, then." 

I pace between Blink and Smalls, covering my mouth with my free hand. 

What if this slip of paper was a declaration of war? Sparrow wouldn't. 

Would he?

"Hey, guys, I'm getting this to Jack. Think you two could sell those 25?" I ask, and the two of them grin. 

"20 cents says I can sell 12 faster than Blink can say his own name." She says, and I smile. 

Blink shoots her a playful glare, and I laugh.

"Thanks, guys. I knew I could count on you!" I tell them before heading up to Jack's selling spot, catching the last bit of Blink's remark. 

"Faster than you could knick Race's cigar!"

I'll not lie, Smalls is probably the fastest of us all to steal Race's cigar. It's quite hilarious, thinking about it.

It's a smooth ride until I crash into someone, causing us both to let out a yelp and promptly hit the ground.

"Cass?" I hear the girl ask as I roll over, groaning. I look up to find the auburn-haired beauty herself, Katherine Plumber. She stands up, straightening her pink skirt, and helps me up, dusting off my flannel and newsie cap.

"Hey, Kath. Sorry for knocking you over," I tell her sheepishly, and she smiles naturally, waving it off. 

"Don't worry! Where are you headed off to in such a hurry?" She asks, raising an eyebrow. I sigh, holding up the slip of paper. 

"A Bronx newsie delivered this to me a bit ago. They want this to get to Jack as soon as possible." I explain, and she nods, her face turning from understanding to concerned. 

"I hope everything's okay. Keep me updated, will you?" She says, twirling her pencil between her fingers. I nod, offering a small smile through my worry. 

"Sure thing. Have you seen him?" I ask, and she points to the lodge. 

"Yeah, he went back to the lodge. I gotta go, but it was nice seeing you, Cass," She takes my hand and squeezes it before walking away to, I assume, the office of the New York Sun, where she works. 

I turn around, away from my brother's girlfriend before heading into the lodge. 

"Jack? Jack!" I yell, hopping the stairs two at a time. I look around the bedroom, where some newsies (including Bullseye and Mush), sit around and wait until dinnertime to head to Jacobi's. 

"Jack Kelly!" I yell, climbing the ladder to the roof of the lodging house.

"What is it, Cass?" He yells back to me, and I walk over once I'm fully on the roof. 

"It's from the Bronx. Bluejay delivered it, it's from Sparrow."

"Jenkins?"

"What other newsie in all of New York is named Sparrow, Jack?"

He rolls his eyes while he opens the paper, reading it over and over again. His breathing gets faster and faster, until he looks at me with his eyes as wide as saucers. 

"What? Jack, what does it say?" I ask, and he grabs my shoulders. 

"Get every newsie in Manhattan home or into the lodging house, now. After that, You, Blink, Smalls, and I are going to Brooklyn. Tell everyone not to go into the Bronx or Queens. Got it?" He instructs me frantically, and my breathing picks up pace. 

He never refers to this borough as Manhattan. It is always, always, 'Hattan when it comes from a newsie with an accent.

"Why? What does that paper say, Jack?" I ask, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. 

"I'll explain later. Just do as I say." He says, and I nod, climbing down the fire escape. It was only 4 p.m., but the sun was already setting.

"Blink! Smalls!" I yell, and the two of them look at me with confusion written all over their faces. 

"Cass? What happened?" Blink asks, and I shake my head. 

"I don't know, but it sounds bad. Jack wants us to get all of the 'Hattan newsies home to their tenements and the lodge. Nobody's allowed to go into the Bronx or Queens." I tell them, and they share a terrified look before nodding. 

"On it." Smalls says before running in one direction, and Blink in the other. 

I've already had enough of running. 

I head back to more neighborhoods to spread the word, along with the message to tell other newsies to not set foot into the boroughs. 

By midnight, Jack, Blink, Smalls, and I are back at the lodge, making rounds about the lodge to make sure everyone's safe. 

Once we find that everyone's there, Jack looks at Specs, serious tone and expression everywhere. 

"You're in charge. If something happens, send Race and Albert." He says, and Speces nods. 

"You got it, Jack." Specs answers before Jack looks at the rest of us. 

"Come on."

It takes a half hour to get to Brooklyn when you really sprint. 

It took us half that. 

"Spot Conlon?" I yell up to a stack of crates, and the short boy (when in reality he's taller than me but we don't like to talk about it) lands next to me almost a second after I call. 

"Ah, Cass Kelly. Nice seein' your pretty face again." He says in his Brooklyn accent. I shake my head. 

"Not this time, Conlon, it's important." I tell him, and he nods. 

"Well?" He waves his hand at Jack. 

"There's a war." Jack says, and Spot's eyes widen. 

"Is there now?"

"Someone soaked Sparrow Jenkins." Jack explains, and Spot holds up a finger. 

"Wait. Sparrow was just here saying someone soaked Bluejay Lee." He says, cocking an eyebrow. 

I raise mine. "You mean, Sparrow's second?"

"Yeah. Sparrow was just here, looked just fine." He says, and I clench my jaw. 

"So they lied, declared war on us, and they have Queens on their side. Any newsie from Brooklyn or Manhattan gets soaked or killed if they're in their turf, no questions asked." Jack says, and Spot taps his foot, resting his hand on his stupid pimp cane. 

"You've got an ally. Knowing the Bronx and Queens, they've probably already got Hempstead on their side." Spot comments, and I blow a piece of my hair out of my face. 

"What do we do?" Smalls asks, and Blink pipes up. 

"What if we got Staten Island on our side?"

Jack shakes his head. 

"You know how they are. They like to stay neutral in borough conflicts," Jack answers, rubbing his face, "So it's just us."

"Not quite," Smalls snaps her fingers, looking at Kid Blink.

"Are you thinking of-" 

"Yes! If we could get the Newark newsies on our side, we'll be safe and even." Smalls smiles, high fiving Blink. 

"Not bad, sweet cheeks." Spot says with his signature smirk, and I smile. 

"Keep your newsies safe." I tell him, and he feigns hurt, putting a hand over his key on his chest. 

"Why won't you trust me, little Kelly?" He asks, ruffling my hair last second. 

"I trusted you for a strike, I gotta trust you for everything else," I roll my eyes and swat his hand away. 

"Alright, enough." Jack separates us, looking at Spot. 

"First thing in the morning, we convince Newark, and we'll have an army. If any newsies get soaked, we soak 'em back. Got it?" Jack looks around, making sure we understand. 

Satisfied with our nods, Jack spits into his hand, shaking Spot's hand in which he did the same. I do the same with Spot before our group starts back for 'Hattan. 

"Hey, Jack?" I catch up with him until our feet fall in sync with one another. 

"Hm?" He asks, looking down at me. I stick my hands in my pockets, sighing. 

"Do you really think we could die from this war?" I ask, biting my lip harshly. Jack looks ahead, and then lets his eyes dart around for a second or two, thinking. 

After a bit of silence, he looks back at me. 

"We could. But if we don't fight, we've already lost."


	2. chapter 2.

It takes a while to fall asleep, and when I do, it's hard to stay that way. Groaning softly, I roll over and hop off my bed onto the ground lightly, deciding to get onto the roof to see how Jack is doing. 

After our conversation, neither of us have said a word all night. Blink and Smalls, well, they were their usual selves, just a little more quiet. 

I sit on the roof for a second with my feet dangling in the lodge, before I hear Jack rolling over in his sleep. 

"Cass?" He mutters, and I nod. 

"It's me." I whisper, standing up and walking over to where he's sitting. I sit down next to him, hugging my knees to my chest. 

"Can't sleep?" He asks, and I shake my head honestly. 

"Me either. This borough war's got me shaken up." Jack admits, leaning against my shoulder. I lean against him, yawning. 

"Has there ever been a borough war before?" I ask softly, and Jack lifts his head wordlessly. 

"I think, once. Two-Bit told me about it. He said... he said it was about 50 or some years ago, but his grandpa was a newsie and had to lead 'Hattan through it." The information makes my eyes widen, and I stare silently at the stars above us.

Two-Bit was an older newsie when Jack and I first started selling papes as kids. Actually, he was the leader for a while, until he chose Jack to be the leader of 'Hattan. 

"Was it bad?" Jack looks at me as I ask, biting his lip. My heart sinks a little, suspecting.

"A lot of kids died, he said." He confirms, and my lips spread in a thin line. 

This wasn't just something like a strike. Brooklyn and Manhattan newsies were accused of soaking the Bronx. That wasn't something anyone would take lightly. 

If any of our newsies died... Jack would be torn up. Needless to say, all of us would be.

"Cass?" I look over to meet Jack's blue eyes with my similar ones. Brother and sister. 

"Yes?" I ask, my heart skipping beats. Whatever he's about to tell me, I know he wants me to keep every word in mind. 

"I have to pick a new leader." He says. 

No. I can't be leader. I just can't. 

"No." I answer, and Jack laughs once. 

"Cass, please. I know you don't think you'd be a good leader, but I really think that you'd do great." Jack puts a hand on my shoulder, and I shake my head, thinking. 

Jack's judgement is sometimes... flawed. But in general, I do trust it. This time, maybe, against my own judgement, I should trust it. 

I trusted his judgement with the strike. 

I look but at him, tiredly, but I nod. 

"I'll try. If it doesn't work out, I'll make Blink leader." I tell him, and Jack laughs. 

"I trust you, Cass. I think you'll be great." He bumps my shoulder with his, causing me to smile. 

"I love you, Jack."

"I love you too, Cass. Get some sleep." He says, and I close my eyes, leaning against him still. Jack wraps a blanket around the two of us, resting his head on top of mine.

\---

"What the-" I feel pain explode in my nose and jaw, eliciting yelling from my sore throat. 

"Stop! Wait, please!" I yell, looking around in the dark, spinning with no sense of direction. 

Are my eyes even open?

"Shut it, Kelly." Someone says, knocking me over, and I feel someone's foot make contact with my side; I start to feel sick. 

"Who are you?!" I yell, trying to push myself up onto my feet with my fists. 

"Who do you think, you lousy little shrimp?" The same voice says, and although it reminds me of what Morris Delancey said to Snipeshooter back in July, it's not his voice. 

And besides, Morris and Oscar redeemed themselves among the newsies. They didn't even care that I was a girl. 

There was no way for me to know who this person was.

"Wait, stop! Why do you want me here?" I ask, suddenly noticing a light and a figure inside it. 

The figure is tall and lean, with fluffy brown hair and stark green eyes, skin as white as paper, and a scar running from his left ear all the way down to his neck. 

Sparrow Jenkins.

"One Kelly down, one to go." He says, reeling his fist back.

\---

"No!" My voice catches in my throat as I jolt awake, standing up. Jack stands up, disoriented, and looks at me. 

"What? What's going on?" He asks, grabbing my shoulders. I shake my head, looking at him closely for a second. 

"Nothing. Bad dream." I answer, rubbing my head, "Sorry for waking you up." 

Jack shakes his head. "You didn't wake me up. Circulation bell's gonna ring any minute now. You okay?" He says, rubbing his eyes. 

I look around, nodding, tired. "I'm gonna head down to buy papes. Find me if you need anything." I tell Jack, and he nods, smiling softly. 

"See you later, future leader." He says, and I roll my eyes, smiling, as I climb back into the lodge. 

"Cass! Come on, we'll be late!" Blink yells from across the room at the stairs. Smalls stands next to him, looking over at me as well. 

"Alright, alright, would you keep your pants on?" I mutter, grabbing my cap off my bed and following them to the distribution center. 

"No shitty coffee today?" Smalls raises her eyebrows, and I shake my head, laughing. 

"Not today, Smalls. Not today." I tell Smalls, just before Kid Blink nudges me into her. I shove him back as we walk through the gates of the distribution center. 

"Cards Kelly?" I whip around to come face to face with the Delanceys, both of them looking down at me with slight concern on their faces. 

"Yes?"

"This message came for you earlier. Queens newsie, said it was important." Morris hands me a piece of paper. I take it with a shaky hand, nodding. I open the folded scrap of paper, and, naturally, Blink, Smalls, Morris, and Oscar crowd around me to read it as well. 

Cass Kelly-

Come to Astoria at midnight, alone. If you bring people with you, all of you will be killed without hesitation. 

-Sparrow Jenkins and Ghost Rogers

Ghost Rogers, the leader of the Queens newsies, is ruthless. Everyone knew it. Nobody ever messed with Queens newsies. 

Everyone feared Spot Conlon, but only until they got to know him and his serious attitude. But for every ounce of fear everyone had for Spot, they had the same, but different kind, of fear for Ghost Rogers.

"You can't go." Oscar says as soon as he's done reading. I look up, my hands still shaking. 

"Oscar, I have to. They'll come into the boroughs and kill anyone to find me. This is bad, you guys," I tell them, and Morris shakes his head. 

"There has to be a way out of it. You're Jack's second. If he and Spot find out, they'll send their own newsies over there." He tells me. I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. 

"They wouldn't willingly put you guys in danger. They'd go themselves." I bite my lip, heart racing.

What do I do?

"I'll go." I whisper, and Blink shakes his head. 

"We're not letting you go alone." He says, and Smalls nods in agreement. I look up at him, poking his chest. 

"You guys read the note. You'll die if you come with me." I answer. 

"You'll die anyway!" Smalls says, smacking my shoulder lightly.

"I don't care!" I shout, throwing my hands in the air and scrunching my nose in anger. Their eyes widen, flinching a little. 

I can understand why. I don't usually yell like that. 

"I don't care if I die, you guys. If it keeps you safe, I will do just about anything." I tell them quietly before marching over to the distribution center, shoving the folded piece of paper in my pocket. 

"100 papes." I mutter to Weasel, and he gets them himself while Morris and Oscar continue their conversation with Blink and Smalls. I take the stack off the counter, my hands still shaking, and I walking down the streets to the 'Hattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge. 

I call out headlines for about two hours before I hear my name. 

"Cass!" I turn around to find Spot Conlon clad in his red suspenders and flannel shirt, jogging towards me.

"Conlon. Everything okay?" I ask, and he shakes his head. 

"What's this note you got that Oscar Delencey's talking about?" He asks, and I exhale, digging in my pocket to hand him the note. 

"It's not a big deal." I mutter. He takes the paper from my discolored hands, and reads it over maybe ten times while I call out more fake headlines, seeing as they suck today. 

"Cass, you can't go!" Spot says, and I roll my eyes. 

"Spot, I have to go. If I don't, Sparrow and Ghost will find me themselves and kill me." I tell him, exasperated and tired, before continuing to call out a headline. 

"Baby born with three arms!" Spot scoffs as a boy our age presses a coin into my palm, taking the pape from my other hand. 

"Cass Kelly you are not going alone." He says, grabbing my elbow, and I yank it away almost instantly.

"Spot. Seriously, I have to go. You read the note just like the Delanceys and Blink and Smalls. Just for the love of god, don't tell Jack." I point at Spot's nose, making him swat my hand away. 

"I will if you go." He says, his face contorting in anger. "Cass, times are hard, we can't lose anyone, especially Jack's second."

I roll my eyes after an old lady buys my last pape, waddling away with her breath swirling around her head like some sort of halo.

"I'm only his second, anyway. What do they want with me?" I mutter, letting my money fall into my pocket. 

"I dunno, but it sounds dangerous. Please, Cass, be careful." Spot says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I look at his boots in front of mine before looking back up at him. 

"Why does the King of Brooklyn care?" I ask as a breeze hits our faces. Not even during the strike did Spot ever act like this, to anyone. He sighs, letting go of my shoulder. 

"We can't afford to not care in the winter." He says, and almost as quickly as he came across the Brooklyn Bridge, he leaves me standing in the cold November air.

I walk back to the newsies lodge with my cheeks and eyes discolored from the cold air, and my shivering body sits on my bed, thinking about Spot Conlon, and waiting for midnight and my friends to come.


	3. chapter 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: semi-graphic description of a fight and blood, fear, and anxiety

Midnight came faster than expected, and Jack comes home angrier than hell. 

"Cass Kelly, get down here!" He yells, slamming the door to the lodge, and I sigh, jumping down from my bed. 

"Yeah?" I ask, and he grabs my shoulders. 

"What the hell are you thinking, saying you're going to Queens alone?!" Jack yells again, and I wince. 

"Jack, I can explain-"

"Please do! Because Spot came and found me on my way home, wordied as hell! Christ, Cass, I've never seen him like that!" He says, throwing his arms in the air everywhere. 

"Jack, did he have you read the note?"

"Yes, Blink, I read the note!" Jack yells across the room. I huff, crossing my arms angrily. 

"If you would knock off your shit and calm down for one second-" Jack's eyes flash, and he leans forward a little, scoffing. 

"Cass, Ghost Rogers said he would kill anyone you bring with you!" He shouts, and my eyes flash back at him. 

"Which is why I'm going alone!" I yell back at him, until I hear one of the younger newsies, about five, crying. I look over with a heartbroken expression as Race sits down next to the boy, rubbing his back, muttering that it's alright and everything would be just fine. 

I look back at Jack. 

"Look, I'm going alone on the off chance that they won't kill me. They said me specifically, Jack, not you, not anyone else. I don't know what they want with Manhattan's second, but I intend to find out." I clench my jaw as I speak softer, and Jack shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. He grits his teeth, looking at me, and then looks around.

I look around too, noticing Smalls standing next to me, and the newsies in the lodge have all stopped to listen to our conversation. I sigh, tiredly and look back up at Jack as he starts in, quieter. 

"You're not going alone, Cass. Spot told you right, I am not letting you risk your life. I am not about to lose you." He says, but it sounds like more of a reminder to himself than a statement to me. 

And of course, Spot goddamn Conlon squealed. 

I sigh, sticking one hand in my pocket and another in my messy hair. I look around again, my eyes landing on Specs. 

"Specs, what time is it?" 

"10:30." He says after looking at the clock. 

I bite my lip before looking at Smalls and Blink, and then back at Jack again. The boy Racetrack sits next to has stopped crying, tear stains leaving clear lines down his cheeks and he lays asleep on Race's lap. Several other kids under the age of eleven have sat themselves around Race and Crutchie, who calm them down with stories in the corner. 

"I might have an idea." Blink says, snapping his fingers, and I lean back against the bunk behind me. 

"Do tell."

"What if all of us went," Blink says, and upon seeing me glaring at him at that suggestion, he continues, "and didn't make ourselves known. They can't soak us if they don't know we're there."

I share a look with Smalls. She shrugs, biting her lip. 

"It's crazy, but it could work if we stayed on the rooftops. Queens doesn't use their rooftops." She says, and I bite my lip, sharing a look with Jack. 

"What if they find us? What do we do then?" Jack asks, placing his hands on his hips and shifting his weight to one leg, reminding me vaguely of Medda. 

"We run, or we soak 'em." Blink answers. I shake my head.

"They carry knives, guys." I tell them, tapping the back of my neck with my fingertips. 

"So? You beat a scab once who had a knife," Blink says, nudging my shoulder. I push his shoulder back, rolling my eyes. 

"That was luck, jackass. The Queens newsies promised in the note that they would kill anyone else with me." I answer, and Blink rubs the side of his face tiredly. 

"So we just don't get caught." He says, and I shake my head. 

"No. No, I'm not letting you do that." I tell them, starting to walk away, but Smalls takes my hand. 

"Cass, please. Queens doesn't use their rooftops, but they don't know that we know that. We'll use the rooftops from the very beginning. If they hurt you, there'll be at least one witness." She says, and I watch her. 

I watch their eyes, and they all plead with mine. I grimace, feeling sick. 

"Fine. Let's go." 

Jack looks at Albert and Elmer. 

"Guys, go find Spot and tell him we're in Queens. Meet us at the border of Queens and 'Hattan, and wait for us there." Jack says, and the two boys nod. 

"On it, Jack." Next thing we know, they're downstairs and sprinting to Brooklyn. Jack meets my eyes, and by god, he looks exhuasted. 

"Ready?" He asks, and I nod. 

"Ready as I'll ever be."

\---

Before arriving to the border, I look at the trio of people insistent that I go with them. 

"To the rooftops." Smalls says quietly, looking us over, before I put a hand on her shoulder. 

"Promise me you three will stay safe." I whisper. Jack nods, wrapping his arms around me tightly. He looks me in the eye for what feels like forever before saying, "Stay alive."

Smalls and Blink give me the same actions before climbing fire escapes onto the rooftops, ready to cross the border. 

I will my legs to carry me over the border, a hot anxious feeling simmering in my chest. It's so quiet I can hear my heartbeat, looking around the unfamiliar buildings of the borough. I walk into a neighborhood labelled Astoria, and as I look around at the tenements, I hear someone's footsteps to my right. 

I look to find a tall figure under a lamplight; what little light there is illuminates a pair of bright green eyes and a long scar. 

Sparrow Jenkins. 

"Evenin, Sparrow," I call over, my voice sounding nervous even to myself. I bite my lip as he stays under the lamplight, his hands in his pockets and his hair covering bits of his eyes. 

"It's a pleasure, Cass Kelly." He says, starting to walk closer. My feet stay glued to the road as he walks; by the time he reaches me, his hands are no linger stuck in his pockets. 

I notice the silver rings on his fingers. I look up at him, unsettled by the crooked smirk on his lips. 

"What can I do for you?" I ask politely in an attempt to cover up my nervousness. 

"Now, now. Ghost isn't here yet. We just wanted to chat for a bit is all." He says, leaning back casually, as if he were a rich businessman that the likes of Pulitzer and Hearst would invite to poker games. 

I nod, looking around. 

"Your borough's beautiful," I nearly whisper, and he smiles in the pale moonlight. 

"Why thank you, Kelly. Nice of ya." He says, rocking back and forth on his feet. 

The silence is deafening as Sparrow's cat-green eyes stare at me through the dark.

Jesus Christ, where is Ghost?

I hear a pair of light feet land on the ground. I turn halfway to find a boy around Race's height with shock white hair and nearly black eyes. He's got freckles everywhere, similar to mine. 

"Ah, the infamous Cass Kelly." 

A little hyperbole does hurt sometimes. Sorry, Katherine. 

It makes my heart skip a beat. His voice is terrifying, for some ungodly reason, as he walks over to Sparrow and I. His eyes fix on me as I were a piece of meat, as if to examine me for imperfections. 

I feel on display to these two. 

My wide eyes search his for some sort of answer to any of the questions multiplying in my head. 

Why did they want me here? What do they want? Why are they starting this war? What to the want with me?

Why do they want 'Hattan's second?

"You might be wondering why we asked you here." Ghost says almost menacingly. I keep his gaze, staying silent for a moment until I realize he's waiting for me to answer him. 

I clear my throat, feeling suffocated. 

"Y-Yes," I answer, trying not to show I'm terrified. 

"We know you probably have some questions, so, we'll start with those first." Ghost says, waving his hand in a gesture to me, telling me to ask my questions now. 

I nod, looking at my boots once before looking back at the two talled (and probably older) boys. 

"What do you want?" I ask. Neither of them look surprised at this question; they obviously knew I would ask. 

"We don't want anything except peace." Sparrow answers, looking for dirt under his fingernails. 

Well, starting a war is one way to go about it, I guess...

"Why start a borough war?" I ask, genuinely confused. Ghost smirks, which is a stark contrast to his face and frankly, it is horrific. 

"Just havin' some fun, sweet cheeks." He says, circling around me and eyeing me again. Shivers run down my spine, and not the good kind. 

If there even is a good kind. 

I stay silent for a second, until Ghost comes back in front of me again. 

"What did you need to see me for?" I ask softly, and Sparrow grins. 

"To make sure you know we're not joking." He says, grabbing the collar of my shirt in his fist. His breath feels warm on my face, and my own breathing starts to shake. 

Before I know it, I'm on the ground, spitting blood. 

"Shit," I look at a growing puddle of blood beneath my hands. I stand up and lunge for Sparrow, until someone grabs a fistful of hair on the back of my head, pulling me back. 

"Agh!" I yell as the person throws me onto the ground on my back. I hear and feel a small crackle as I land, causing me to wince. 

"Shit," I groan, rolling onto my side in time to se Ghost running for me. I roll to my other side, dizzy, as he goes to kick my face. Angry that he missed, he turns around and kicks my stomach, causing more crunching. 

"Wait, please!" I yell, warm tears streaming down my face again. 

Just like in my dream. 

Ghost takes a fistful of my shirt, holding me up on my knees, glaring and baring his teeth, as if deciding whether or not to do something.

"Let this be a reminder to show that you will never be able to protect your friends from us. Remember us, Cass Kelly. You're lucky this time." Ghost snarls before letting go of my shirt and running off with Sparrow.

I stay on all fours for a minute before pushing myself onto my feet. I stumble to the border again, my vision hazed. 

Where is Jack?

"Jack?" I call out, but it sounds like a raspy whisper. I spit more blood out of my mouth, feeling scratching in my throat.

"Cass? Cass! Shit, we need help!" I hear a voice yell faintly, until my knees hit the ground, and everything fades to black.


	4. chapter 4.

My eyes flutter open to find that I'm in the lodging house again. I push myself up to sit until I feel a sharp pain in my chest, as if someone broke my ribs. 

Wait. 

I looke around, finding newsies doing their normal thing, until I hear, "Jack, Spot, she's awake!"

Jack and Spot appear at the side of the bed in a matter of seconds, eyes glued to me. 

"What time is it?" I ask, noticing it's just beginning to show light through the window, and then I look back at Jack and Spot, who are covered in dried, flaking blood and bruises litter their faces. 

Spot has a busted eyebrow, nose, lip, and cuts all over his face, arms, and his hands are wrapped. Jack's injuries are almost exactly the same. They have bruises everywhere.

"What happened to you guys?" My voice is quiet and scratchy as I reach a hand out to touch Spot's eyebrow. He winces, and I pull my hand back, surprised. 

"How are you feeling?" He asks instead, leaning forward. I look at my knuckles, covered in scrapes and spare bandages. 

"Like hell. What happened?" I ask again, looking at Jack this time. 

"Ghost and Sparrow soaked you." Jack answers bitterly, and I sit back a bit, wincing and holding my left side with my right hand. 

Ghost's kicks.

"They lied." I look back at them, and I realize they got soaked too. Jack and Spot's nearly heartbroken expressions tell me everything I needed to know.

They knew I wasn't coming to Queens alone. 

They knew about everything. They soaked everyone.

"Oh my god," I groan, wincing in pain again and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

"No, lay back down," Jack mutters and Spot tries to pull me back, but I shake my head. 

"No, you guys, I gotta sell," I stand up, but instantly regret it, feeling lightheaded. I reach out for the bunk to steady myself and Spot holds me up. I wince again at the pounding in my head, sitting down between them. 

"Christ," I mutter under my breath as Spot rubs my back. 

"You gotta stay here, Cass." Jack says, and I shake my head, insistent.

I can't miss selling. I don't care how beat up I got last night. I can't miss selling. That's our lifeline.

"How are Blink and Smalls?" I ask, realizing my selling partners might've gotten hurt as well. 

"Right here, love." Smalls smiles, poking her head over the bunk. She's sporting a black eye and a busted lip, but that seems to be it. She jumps down, landing in front of us. 

"We're fine as daisies." Blink smiles as he slings an arm around Smalls's shoulders, causing her to turn red. I smile a little at the interaction, having known about Smalls's little crush for a while now.

Blink seems to be unscathed too, though his nose has a bandage over it and his ear has a trickle of dried blood.

"I'm glad you guys are okay." I tell them, looking around at the group, lastly looking at Spot. 

"What about Elmer and Albert?" I ask, and he smiles softly. 

"They're just fine, dollface." He says, still rubbing my back. I nod, disregarding the nickname. "They're already out selling." He adds.

I smile softly knowing that they were alright.

"Can I try standing again?" I ask Jack, and everyone shares a look before coming to an agreement.

"Alright, sure." Jack says, and I prepare myself, leaning forward, before pushing myself onto my feet. 

A little lightheaded, and my rib is killing me, but I'm okay. 

"Do you want to try walking?" Spot asks, and I shrug. 

"Can't hurt."

One barefoot step forward, and I don't fall. Two steps, with both Jack and Spot letting go of me.

I make my way to the bathroom myself with Spot and Jack at either side of me. I look at our bruised and bloodied faces in the mirror above the sink. I lean forward, my hands on the sink to steady me, as I examine our faces in the mirror.

There are bruises covering my cheeks, splitting the skin in my right one, and my bottom lip is busted. My chest is covered in bandages, unsurprisingly. I don't have my shirt on, but since I have a flat chest, it really wouldn't have made much of a difference.

"Can I still go sell?" I look up at Jack, and he shares a look with Spot, sighing. 

"Alright, fine. You can sell. Stay close to Blink and Smalls today, okay?" He says, and I nod. Jack squeezes my shoulder and ruffles my hair before walking out of the bathroom, leaving Spot and I standing alone together. 

I look over at Spot, remembering someone yelling last night before I knocked out. The voice was faint and my vision wasn't right, so I didn't know who it was, but the only person that I feel like talking to about it is Spot. 

"Hey. Did you yell something last night at the border?" I ask curiously. 

"Before you fell?" He asks. 

"I fell?" I cock an eyebrow. His eyes widen, and he starts rubbing the back of his neck, nervous. 

"Well, yeah. Right when you fell, I was yelling for help. And then two or three Queens newsies came out of nowhere. So I took care of them while Elmer and Albert got you out of there." He explains, and I look over his injuries. His eyes meet mine, and I smile softly even though it hurts my cheeks to do so.

"Thank you, Spot." I hug him softly, resting my chin on his shoulder. A few seconds pass before I feel his hands rest on my lower back. 

"Anything for 'Hattan's second." He says with a smile in his voice, and I smile back at him. 

"You didn't have to, though."I tell him softly, and he shrugs. 

"I wanted to."

\---

After putting on my shirt, flannel, and a pair of green socks given to me by Jojo (since the ones I had last night were covered in blood and needed washed), I head downstairs with Jack, Smalls, Blink, and Spot, yawning frequently. 

"Maybe you should've stayed in the lodge, Cass." Spot says, and I shoot him a glare. 

"I'm selling. End of story." I tell him tiredly, and Spot puts his hands up in defense. 

"Hey, not trying to offend ya, dollface. Just making sure you's okay." He says, and I nod, kicking pebbles with my boots on the road as we walk. 

"100 papes." Jack says, and nods to both Morris and Oscar. 

"Jesus, what happened to you, kid?" Morris mutters, taking my money. I shake my head. 

"Got soaked by Queens. I'll tell you later. Thanks, Morris," I tell him, and he nods as he sets my stack of papes on the counter. 

"Sure thing, Kelly. Be careful." He says before I walk off with my stack, my selling partners, and Spot Conlon.

Spot bids us goodbye when we arrive to the Brooklyn Bridge, spit shaking with the three of us and squeezing my shoulder lightly. From there, our work day begins. With every headline comes a sharp knife in my chest, and a perpetual dull ache. But, as newsies do, I keep yelling my headlines and taking people's money. 

Today's a calm day, surprisingly. No newsies from other boroughs came to deliver a message, nor did we catch wind of anyone soaking anyone. 

For a while, I think about what Ghost said last night. That I was lucky to get sway this time. 

This time.

He had planned on killing me last night. 

So, why didn't he? If he had planned on it, what made him decide against it?

The questions turn cogs in my brain for the next few hours until the end of our selling.

"Hey, do you guys want Jacobi's on the way home?" Blink calls over to us, and I shrug. 

"Sure, sounds good." Smalls says, and I nod. 

"I haven't eaten in three days, actually, so why not," I smile, taking note of the empty feeling in my stomach, before I feel someone tap my shoulder. I turn around to find Spot looking down at me. 

"Hey, is everything okay?" I feel concern and fear wash over me in waves, and he waves his hand.

"Yeah, everything's fine, just wanted to come see how you all were doin'," He says, before tipping his hat to Blink. Blink rolls his eyes and smacks Spot's head lightly. 

"Sure, all of us. We know you got the hots for our little Kelly, here." Blink smirks, and Spot smacks him with his newsie cap. 

"Would you keep your shirt on? Christ," He rolls his eyes, before looking down at me.

I pull my lips to the side in a smirk, looking up at Spot, causing his face to get dusted with pink and turn away. This is the first I've heard of Spot Conlon having a thing for me, but that didn't mean I wasn't going to tease him about it.

All of us, my ass. 

"Why haven't you been eating?" Spot asks, and I look up at him, sticking my hands in my pockets. 

"In case you haven't noticed, my knight in shining armor, newsies don't have the best track record with nutrition." I nudge his arm, and Smalls cracks a smile. 

"Okay, but you have the money. You can eat." She says, flicking my cap. I roll my eyes, pushing her shoulder lightly. 

Spot looks down at me, and takes my hand in his bigger one. His skin is rough and calloused but still soft somehow. 

Why am I thinking about that?

"Okay, well, come with me. We can get some food and I'll walk you home." He says. I look up at his bruised eye above his bandaged nose, before holding up our hands. 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you really do have the hots for me, Conlon." I mutter to him, before turning on my heel and walking down the street to Jacobi's. 

"So what if I do?" Spot laughs as he catches up with me, and I laugh with him, still walking without sparing a glance. 

"Jack would have your ass faster than he could sell a pape," I laugh, and Spot cracks a wide smile, sticking his wrapped hands in his pockets. 

"Maybe. But so what?" He asks, and I look up at him, slightly rolling my eyes, stuffing my hands in my own pockets of my brown pants. 

A certain Jack Kelly would be angrier than hell, that's what.

Spot opens the door to the restaurant, letting me in first, before following me inside. 

Jacobi, the owner (obviously), looks up and finds us in the doorway. 

"That table's open." He points to a booth in the corner, next to a window, fairly lit. 

Spot leads me over to the table and we sit across from each other, looking out the window and watching people as they pass by for a few minutes until Jacobi comes over with plates of food already made. 

"I heard about your borough war, and since you're such good friends of Bryan Denton and Katherine Plumber, newsies' meals for the rest of the week are on the house." He says. My jaw drops slightly, and my eyes flick to the grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup between Spot and I. 

"Thank you so much, sir," I tell him, and he smiles. 

"My pleasure. Eat up." He says to us, and I turn back to Spot, my heart melted by Jacobi's kindness. 

"You heard the man. Eat." He grins, taking half of a grilled cheese sandwich. I take the other half and eat silently with him until the food is gone. 

I look at Jacobi as he comes to take the empty dishes.

"At least let me do dishes," I plead with him, and he shakes his head. 

"With your broken rib? You should be home resting, kid." He says with a stern smile before walking away with the empty dishes. I stare in his direction, confused. Who told him about all of this?

I look at Spot, who smiles lightly at me. 

"You want to go home or do you want to walk around?" He asks, and I shrug. 

"Whatever you want." I answer. He smiles and stands up, holding his hand out to me. I take it and stand up, digging in my pocket for money, leaving it on the table before walking away with Spot. 

"I'm gonna take you home," Spot says, and I nod, noticing my hand in his again. The chill bites at my nose and causes ache in my cheeks. The only warmth in my body comes from his hand enveloping mine. 

I look up at the lodge ahead, noticing white dots floating in the air. 

"Is that- Is it snowing?!" I smile, my eyes lighting up like New York's Christmas. 

"Yeah, that's snow. It's cold enough to," Spot says, looking around, and squeezes my hand lightly. I squeeze it back. 

Why does this have to be so confusing? Why does he even like me in the first place when he could have any guy or girl he wanted in this city?

Once we arrive at the lodge, Spot lets go of my hand. 

"Stay safe, alright?" He says, before squeezing my shoulder and turning on his heel. I step forward, taking his hand. 

"Wait a sec," I tell him, and he turns around, waiting for me to say something else. I wrap my arms around him tightly, ignoring the pain in my side, and close my eyes. 

"Thank you, Spot Conlon. For everything."


	5. chapter 5.

Racetrack comes into the lodge with a bloody nose, and screaming bloody murder. 

"Holy shit, calm down, come in here," I tell him, leading him to the bathroom, seeing blood covering the lower half of his face, and gashes in his nose. His eyes are wild with anger, and under them purple crescent moons are stamped.

"This damn borough war is making me sick!" He yells, and I clench jaw before wincing, holding my cheeks for a second. 

Clenching my jaw is off the table. 

"Who soaked you?" I ask, grabbing a rag from a cabinet and mopping up the blood. He waits until I'm finished and spits out excess blood into the sink we stand in front of. 

I'm come to name this sink the Blood Sink, since it seemed like every time someone got hurt, this sink is the one that sees the worst of it.

"Some damn Bronx newsies! Piled on me when I was coming back up from the track!" He yells, still blowing off steam. I tilt his head back just the slightest. 

"Don't lean all the way, you'll swallow your blood." I mutter, turning his words over and over in my head. On his way home from the track. 

The track is in Brooklyn. 

Spot. 

"Specs! Take care of Race!" I yell before jumping the stairs two at a time before whipping open the door of the lodge and slamming it, running through the fluffy white snow to the Brooklyn Bridge. 

"Wait! Cass, no, they'll soak you!" Race yells down the stairs, but I completely disregard his statement. 

Someone has to do something before someone else gets hurt.

Blink and Smalls have already abandoned our selling spot, and Spot must be at least to his lodge by now. 

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," I mutter while I sprint on the bridge, ignoring the stabs in my side from my broken ribs, and finally, after what feels like hours, I make it to the end of the bridge on Brooklyn's side. 

The lodge isn't that far. 

The sun is almost done setting as I continue through Brooklyn to the lodge, the cold causing the blood in my body to retract inward. 

I jump over bits of ice that stick to the ground now, until I make it to the Brooklyn lodge. I bang on the door three times, my breathing spastic and my breath floating around my face like steam from a train. 

A Brooklyn newsie, Sketch, opens the door and cocks an eyebrow at me. 

"What do you want?" He asks, and my heart drops a little, wondering if they'd even listen to what I have to say. 

"I need to talk to Spot Conlon, please, it's important." I tell him frantically, my eyes wide. He raises his eyebrows, and then yawns. 

Jesus Christ. 

"Nobody just comes and sees Spot Conlon," He says. Well isn't that fucking enlightening. I scrunch my nose quickly as he starts to close the door. I put my hand on it, desperate. 

"Wait! Please, it's about the borough war. There are Bronx newsies in Brooklyn, they could be soaking your newsies any second," I plead, and Sketch opens the door again, his brown eyes looking at me with a mixture of confusion and anger. 

"Spot! Some kid wants to talk to you!" He yells, and within five seconds, Spot's at the door instead of Sketch, worry displayed on his features. 

"What happened?" He asks, and I feel a small wave of relief wash over me. 

"There are Bronx newsies in Brooklyn. They soaked Race when he was coming up from the track," I tell him, and he clenches his jaw and his fists. 

"Newsies! Go in every direction in groups! Any newsie you see from the Bronx or Queens gets soaked." He yells into the lodge, and a crowd of newsies pours out into the streets, taking different directions in large groups. 

I look at Spot. 

"What about them? What if they get hurt?" I ask, shivering, and he shakes his head. 

"They know how to fight and get away from situations like last night. They'll be okay." He says, expressionless, and I go back to watching the Brooklyn newsies as they leave. 

"Are you sure?" I ask, and Spot looks down at me, nodding. 

"I'm sure, doll. I'm sure." He says softly, putting a hand on my shoulder and standing next to me. The leeries of the city have just begun to light the lamps, shedding light on the newsies as they walk further and further away. 

"Spot? Spot! You gotta come see this," A newsie no older than seven runs up to us, and leads Spot into an alleyway not far from the front door of the lodge. 

A body lays in the far corner, and I put my hands on the newsie's shoulders, eyes wide as Spot slowly walks over. 

"Cass?" He asks, and I'm suddenly on edge, looking at the fire escapes, the lit up lamp behind us in the street. 

"Yeah?" I squeak, and Spot looks up, breathing strange. 

"He's sleeping. But he's soaked." He says, and I breathe out a sigh of relief as Spot bends to pick him up, carrying him out of the corner and over to the edge of the alleyway. 

"Someone should've taught Conlon here not to help strangers, eh?" A gravelly voice says in a Jersey accent from my right, and I turn to find a newsie that looks similar in height to Sparrow Jenkins but similar in looks to Ghost Rogers. 

"Who are you?" I sound braver than I feel, turning to face them completely, glaring at the boy; it's hard to tell how old he is. 

"None of your concern, sweet cheeks. If I were you I'd get out of here while you still can." He says, nodding his head to the side as if to tell me to scram. 

I keep my feet planted on the ground, unmoving. When he realizes I'm not going anywhere without a fight, he shrugs. 

"Suit yourself, sweets. I just needed to talk to your boy Conlon, here." He says, and I look at Spot, still holding the newsie in his arms. 

The newsie looks bloody and banged up to no end, and fragile too; like he hadn't eaten in weeks and if you touched him in the slightest he would bruise right then and there. 

"What do you want, Pigeon?" Spot says finally. He knows this guy?

Pigeon simply shrugs. 

"To talk. That's it. There's been little birdies chirping all over town saying that you'se in a borough war with Queens, and, well..." Pigeon shrugs, moving both his hands as if he couldn't decide on something. 

"Well, what, Pigeon. Use your words, spit it out," Spot says with a hint of a smirk. Who the hell was this guy? 

"You've got Newark on your side." He says, spitting into his hand and holding it out for Spot to shake. My eyes widen, and I force myself not to smile as Spot lays the Newsie down on the ground gently. 

He spits into his hand and returns the gesture, smiling widely. 

That's what this news was? Christ, way to make a girl think you're about to soak her. 

"Thank you, Pigeon. I owe you one." 

"Yeah, you do. How can we help?" Pigeon smiles softly as ten other newsies peel themselves away from shadows to make themselves known. Spot picks the newsie back up in his arms carefully. 

I turn full circle to find that they're all different ages, and I finally smile to myself. 

Thank god for Pigeon. 

Yeah, yeah. My indecisive ass.

"Well, Newark's got some of the best medic newsies I've ever seen, and quite a few of them too. Care to send a couple up here and to 'Hattan?" Spot asks, and Pigeon smiles, snapping his fingers twice. 

"You got it, Conlon. We'll take care of that kid." He says, and one of the newsies tips his cap to us as he takes the kid from Spot's arms and into the Brooklyn lodge, with the other newsie and the boy following suit. 

"Care to introduce me?" Pigeon asks, gesturing to me. I look up at him, my smile fading. 

"Pigeon, this is Cass Kelly. Jack Kelly's little sister and his second. Cass, this is Pigeon O'Connell, leader of the Newark newsies over in Jersey." Spot says, and Pigeon proceeds to spit in his hand and extend it to me. 

I return the gesture, shaking his hand firmly. 

"If anything, I owe you one." I tell him, and Pigeon waves it off, shaking his head with a smile.

"Pleasure's all mine, sweets. We'll send some of our newsies home with you. I'm needed in Newark still, but send a message if either of you need anything." Pigeon says, and I smile, tipping my hat to him. 

"Alright, let's get this show on the road!" Pigeon says, and starts running, with six of his newsies following him, and two of them staying behind. 

"Which way to 'Hattan, Cass?" One of them asks, and I look up at Spot. 

"You guys will be alright, right?" I ask, and he nods with a small smile, ruffling my short hair. 

"Of course. Go on, Jack's probably losing it wondering where you are so late," He says, and starts laughing when my eyes get wide. 

"Racetrack probably already told him," I mumble, and Spot smiles, squeezing my shoulder again as he usually does. I look up at him, trying not to bite my lip. "Send a message in the morning telling us what happened, will you?"

"Of course," Spot replies with a glint in his eye, "See you around, Cass."

He gives me a nod, and for a moment I think he wants to ask me something, but he stays silent. I look at the two Newark newsies in front of me. 

"This way." I tell them, breaking off in a run, waving at Spot as I go. I keep running, leading them across the Brooklyn Bridge and down the streets of 'Hattan. It doesn't take long, and this time, I barely break a sweat save for my ribs. 

"Alright, here we are." I tell them, opening the door as quietly as I can. I step inside with the two boys following me up the stairs. Once we reach the top and enter the room we share. 

Everyone is awake. 

And I mean literally everyone, is awake.

"Cass, where were you?!" Jack yells, walking over like a bat out of hell. I put my hands on his shoulders. 

"Jack, before you keep yelling, this is, er... I'm so sorry, I never caught your names," I look at the two newsies behind me sheepishly. 

Cut me some slack. It's been a long week.

"I'm Ace, and this is Skip. Newark newsies." The newsie to my left says, and I smile a little. 

"Newark? Okay, explain to me what happened." Jack says shaking his head ans holding his hands out in front of him, and I nod. 

"Race came in screaming bloody murder and 'fuck the Bronx'. Some Bronx newsies soaked him while he was coming up from the track. So, I went to Brooklyn to tell them that they had Bronx newsies in their borough. They're finding them now." I explain, and Jack nods, turning his hands over one another as a way to tell me to keep talking. 

"While I was talking to Spot, Pigeon came up and told us that we have an ally with them. And he sent two newsies with medical experience to each of us." I gesture to Ace and Skip. Jack nods, spit-shaking with the two newsies behind me. 

"Do either of you know how to set a broken rib?" Smalls asks, and I wave my hand over my neck, trying to tell her to cool it. 

Skip nods, "Once or twice. Why?"

"Our girlsie here needs it." She hops down from Blink's bed where he's sitting, watching Smalls dreamily, and stands next to me, slinging her arm around my shoulders. I nudge her in the ribs, making her grit her teeth. She steps on my foot, causing me to push her shoulder. 

"I'm fine." I tell them, waving it off and walking away to find Race. 

"If it heals wrong, you won't be!" Smalls yells, and I roll my eyes, sitting down next to Crutchie as he and Race tell a story to the younger newsies. 

"What happened then?!" A boy around the age of six asks, excited. The childhood wonder covers all of their faces, and I smile. 

"Then, he caught her as she stepped off the plank. But the pirate captain didn't know, looming over the side of his ship with his hook. His crew grabbed him, saying, 'No splash, Captain!'" Race says, acting out the story with Crutchie. I smile as the kids listened, growing more excited by the second. 

"Then, Peter Pan flew up to the rope ladder and yelled, 'Hey you codfish! Here!' He caught the attention of everyone as Wendy freed the Lost Boys." Crutchie tells the next part, just like the older newsies used to tell it. 

Peter Pan was everyone's favorite story growing up. We all wished we could fly, and if we could fly, then to Neverland we'd go. 

It got to be sort of a problem when the younger newsies (us) started jumping off the top beds to see if we could actually fly. Even Crutchie, the poor guy.

Needless to say, that didn't exactly end well. It resulted in quite a few bruised eyebrows and busted noses, until the older newsies finally told us we couldn't keep trying to fly.

"Alright, that's enough for tonight. It's late, go get some sleep." Race stands up, shooing the kids off to bed. 

"Aww, but what happens to Captain Hook? What happens to the Lost Boys?" One of the kids asks, and Race smiles, picking him up and placing him on his shoulders. 

"Well, I guess you'll just have to wait to hear the end of the story tomorrow night, now, huh?" He says, spinning once, causing everyone to giggle. I help Crutchie and Race tuck the younger newsies into bed, and I walk over to Race after he blows out the lamp on the table. 

"How're you feeling?" I ask, and he shrugs, rubbing the bandage on his nose a bit. 

"Sore, but I'm alright. What happened in Brooklyn?" He asks as we walk downstairs. I commence to making some coffee in the tiny kitchen among other older newsies talking, yawning. They were already heading upstaids to bed.

"Well, I talked to Spot. We have Newark on our side now, which is nice." I tell him, hopping up on the counter. He nods, leaning against the counter across from me and drumming his fingers on it.

"That's good. So they're looking for the Bronx newsies?" He asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. I take in his appearance. He still looks put together, in the way that newsies usually do, like everything else. 

This is one of the few times when Racetrack Higgins doesn't have his comically huge cigar dangling from between his teeth, and his eyes look plagued with exhaustion. It's the look at most newsies get during the winter, when sickness sometimes sets in and our bodies succumb to disease. 

I nod to answer his question, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet behind me for our coffee. I pour his cup first and hand it over, since for some reason he likes his coffee straight (unlike himself). 

Yes, I went there.

I pour creamer and sugar into mine, mixing it thoroughly before turning back to him. 

"I told Spot to send us a message in the morning." I tell him, and he nods as he takes a small sip. 

"How is he?" He asks. 

Everyone knew about Racetrack Higgins and Spot Conlon's row. Believe me, as one of the newsies placing bets against newsies in Brooklyn on how it would go, it wasn't a pretty sight. 

Let's just say it ended on a sour note, but somehow they were still friends. I don't know how, considering the turn of events in early August, but if they were friends still, then good for them.

"He's doing well." I answer honestly, and Race nods, taking another sip of his coffee. I lean back against the counter, yawning. 

"How are you doing, Race?" I ask, and he looks over at me again. 

"How do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. How's everything in your head?" I ask, kicking his ankle lightly with my toes covered by Jojo's green socks. 

Race stays silent for a bit, occasionally sipping his coffee. He kicks my foot back lightly, and we go back and forth for a litfle while. 

"I'm okay, I think." He says, and I drink a few gulps of coffee before saying anything else. 

"You would tell us if you weren't, right?" I ask, leaning forward a little. He nods. 

"Sure I would. Listen, it's late. We should get some sleep." He says, drinking the rest of his coffee, and I do the same, nodding in agreement. 

We walk upstairs silently so we don't wake anyone up, and lay in our beds, mine above his. 

"G'night, Race. Sleep well." I mutter, staying on my back.

"G'night, Cass. You too," I hear him mutter back, and I roll over on my right side, thinking. 

We can't afford not to care in the winter.


	6. chapter 6.

I wake up to the sounds of someone throwing up and groans of disgust. I roll over, groaning as well, looking around to find no vomit on the floor, but someone in the bathroom retching into a toilet. 

I look down to make sure it isn't Race; a sigh of relief leaves my chapped lips when I find he's laying down with his eyes open. He blinks, looking at me. 

"Who's sick?" I ask in a groggy voice, rubbing my eyes and slipping down from my bed onto the floor. He rubs his head and sits up.

"One of the kids. Crutchie's helping 'im." He mutters, yawning. I look in the direction of the bathroom, yawning as I walk over. I find Crutchie and a boy named Sunny sitting on the bathroom floor, with tears running down Sunny's face. 

"Need help?" I ask, kneeling on the ground. Crutchie nods. 

"Yeah, can you grab a rag really quick? Some water?" He asks, and I grab the things within the next minute. 

"Here. I'll go buy you a Coke from Jacobi's, alright? Stay here and rest for the day, I'll sell for you." I tell him, and the boy looks up at me in wonder. 

"Really?" He asks, and I nod, giving him a small smile and ruffling his hair. 

"Sure thing. Get some sleep, alright?" The kid nods before stumbling tiredly to his bed with the help of Crutchie, who gives me a smile and a thumbs up. 

Coca-Cola is our go-to cure for any sickness, and (surprisingly) it always helps any cold or stomach bug we've gotten. Obviously it wouldn't help against polio or anything, but it never hurts when you can't afford a doctor.

I throw on my flannel and lace up my boots before walking downstairs, muttering a good morning to Kloppmann, and heading a few streets down to Jacobi's. 

It's dark, probably an hour or two before dawn, and the snow sticks everywhere. The little white crystals stick to my eyelashes ans my hair, making everything just a little bit colder.

I find Jacobi sweeping the floor, and I shiver as I enter the restaurant. He looks up, smiles softly, before walking over and leaning on the counter at the front entrance. 

"What can I do for you, Miss Kelly?" He asks, and I smile back softly, digging some money out of my pocket for the bottles of Coca-Cola. 

"Just some bottles of Coca-Cola, sir." I answer, handing the old man the coins, and he smiles sadly. 

"Free of charge. Let me get those bottles, kid." He says, pressing the coins back into my hand before walking off. I place the coins on the table, doing a physical scan of myself while he's gone. My chest still feels like I've been stabbed over and over, and my cheeks still have a dull ache. 

Jacobi comes back and hands me the glass bottles and leads me out the door. 

"Rest, Kelly. Your rib isn't gonna get any better if you're walking around like that. G'day." He says, and I nod with a small smile. 

"Thank you, Jacobi." I answer, before walking back through the snow up to the lodge. I look occasionally at the holiday lights being strung up around the streets; it's only November 24th, for christ sake. 

It's too early for Christmas. 

It's too early for the day that will simply feel like just another day in the lodge, just another day selling, just another day wondering if we will have food.

Just another normal day.

I walk back into the lodge and stomp the snow off my boots before heading upstairs. I find Crutchie sat next to the young boy's bed on the floor. I sit with him, opening the bottle with a bottle opener under the floorboards. 

"Here you go, kid." I hand over the bottle, and he drinks a quarter of it before laying back down and closing his eyes. I look at Crutchie, smiling softly. 

"How've you been feeling?" I ask, touching his ankle with mine. He shrugs, leaning against the bed post as the boy falls asleep, rather quickly. 

"Worried. About the borough war." He admits, and I nod, leaning against the bed post on the other end. 

"Yeah. Hopefully it'll be over soon." I mutter, looking at my hands in my lap. He nods, looking at the ceiling, and I sigh tiredly. 

We hear a knock on the door downstairs, and I look at Crutchie. 

"Get some sleep. I'll get it." I tell him, ruffling his hair, and he smiles. 

"Thanks, Cass."

"Sure thing, Crutchie."

I make my way downstairs quietly, wrapping my flannel tighter around my body as I open the door. The cold air flows in instantly as I meet the eyes of Sketch again. 

"Is everything okay?" I ask, stepping aside to let him in. He steps inside, shivering, so I take off my flannel and wrap him in it. 

He nods, sniffling a little. 

"Yeah, we got the newsies. We soaked 'em good," He says, and upon closer examination in the dark, I realize he's got a black eye and blood dripping from his scalp, nose, and ears. 

"Christ, Sketch, c'mere," I mumble, bringing him upstairs to the Blood Sink. He nearly collapses into the chair across from it, and I grab the last clean rag we've got. 

I stand on another chair to pull the small chain that turns on the lightbulb. I step down from it and begin cleaning the blood from the other newsie's face. 

We have seen entirely too much blood this year. 

"Alright, stay here for the day. I'll sell for you." I tell him, patting his shoulder, recieving a shake of his head and a sniffle. 

"Cass, I gotta go back to Brooklyn, Spot-" He starts, until I sit down next to him and put my hands on his shoulders.

"Spot will understand. I know he will. He wants you guys safe, and I'll let him know that you are. Okay?" I tell him. He stares at me for a few seconds before deflating. I smile a little, guiding him to my bed. I help him up, letting my flannel drape over him like a blanket. 

"Get some sleep." I tell him softly, and before I turn away, he grabs my forearm, startling me. 

"Thank you, Cass." He says softly in a raspy voice. I squeeze his shoulder lightly, grinning back at him. 

"Anytime. 'Hattan's got your back." I tell him, before he nods, closing his eyes. I turn away and guide my boots across the ground, noticing the other newsies getting up and preparing for yet another day of selling. 

"Cass, hurry your ass up," Blink says, and I roll my eyes, walking over. Smalls smacks his head from behind him, smirking. He turns around, pushing her lightly, but not as hard as he would've pushed me. 

So much for covering up your crush, huh Blink? 

I trail behind my friends down the stairs until Smalls turns around, cocking an eyebrow. 

"Where's your flannel?" She asks, tugging at my short shirt sleeve. I shrug it off, stepping out into the cold. 

"Sketch has it." I tell her as the three of us continue walking towards the nuns' cart. Blink catches up, confused and not quite shivering yet. 

"Why does Sketch have it?" 

I look up at Blink's brown eyes, sighing, our breath floating up like candle smoke this time. It seems different every time we step outside now. 

"He got soaked last night. Remember the Bronx newsies that soaked Race yesterday?" I ask them, sticking my hands in my pockets again. My friends nod as the nuns hand us each some biscuits and coffee. 

Today the biscuits and coffee are less shitty than usual. I look up at the nuns with a small smile. 

"Thank you, sisters." I tell them, and they smile down at us. 

"God bless you, Mister Kelly." The kind woman in the middle says, and I nod to them once more before my group turns and walks in the other direction to the distribution center. 

"Well, they soaked them after I left. He looked pretty banged up when he showed up." I tell them quietly before eating more of the biscuit. It still shocks me that it doesn't feel like a rock. Jack would love these.

Speaking of which, where is the silly goose?

"Where's Jack?" I ask my companions, knitting my brows with concern.

The two share a look, confused. 

"Have you seen him lately?" Smalls asks, and Blink stares at our sets of boots moving through the snow as he thinks. His brows are furrowed in confusion. 

"I haven't seen him since yesterday morning." He says around the food in his mouth, and I look between the two of them, stopping as they take a few more steps. They stop, looking back to me.

"Has anyone seen him since then?" I ask fear starting to set in, and Smalls looks at Blink. 

"Sell the first bit of my papes for me, would ya? I'll ask around." She says, and takes my forearms. 

"I'm sure he's fine, Cass. Don't worry." She says, smiling, and smoothing her thumb over the split in my cheek before turning around and heading back for the lodge, beginning to ask the newsies pouring out of the lodge. Blink nudges my arm, nodding his head in the other direction to the distribution center. 

Blink buys his usual hundred, and also buys Smalls's hundred as well. He walks away with the huge load with ease, and I watch him for a second before it's my turn at the window.

I walk with him, placing extra money on the counter. "150 papes," I sigh, and Morris gets a stack slightly larger than my usual load. 

"Everything alright?" Morris asks, and I shake my head. 

"Have you guys seen Jack running through here since yesterday morning?" I ask, leaning over the counter a bit. 

"Not a peep. Sorry girly." Morris whispers back, and I nod. 

"Thanks anyway, Morris." I offer a small smile before catching up to Blink. 

"Did Delancey see 'im?" He asks, kicking snow all around us. I exhale, shaking my head worriedly. 

"No."

"I'm sure he's fine, Cass." Blink reassures me, and I look up at him, tired. Exhausted, in fact. 

I feel like I'm willing my body to move, at this point. 

I don't reply as we make it to the bridge, starting to call out headlines.

It's a hard selling day. It's freezing, and the wind blows hard enough to knock you in the harbor. Blink's teeth are chattering as he calls out headlines, and my eyes water every time I turn my head.

I notice Smalls walking towards us within a half hour, taking some of Blink's load from him. She stops and looks at me with her lips spread in a line. 

"He didn't come home last night." She says, and my heart sinks. 

"You're serious?" I ask, and she nods sadly, biting her lip.

"No one's seem 'im." 

I look at my boots, before calling out more headlines, trying not to sound desperate. 

Five hours later, I'm numb from the waist down. I can't feel my fingers, cheeks, anything. 

I have to look down at the papes to make sure they're in my hands. 

Two hours later, I'm in autopilot. I can't think straight. My vision's hazy and my throat is scratchy. Blink and Smalls have finished selling. I have ten papes left.

"Cass, let us, help you," Smalls pleads before sneezing. Blink is sneezing and sniffling all the while, teeth still chattering.

We're all going to be sick. Her eyes and Blink's are glazed over already. They look glassy. I'm sure they feel the same way I do, if not worse.

"Go back, to the lodge," I tell them, though they stay their ground. It's amazing what the three of us go through for each other. 

"Spot, tell her, that she has to, come home," Smalls says, looking to my right, just before sneezing again. 

"You two are sick. I'll take care of her, okay?" I hear Spot say, and I turn to look at him, void of expression. Blink and Smalls pull me into a hug that I can't feel before ruffling my hair, kissing the top of my head before helping each other home. 

I blink, trying to call out a headline, but it's so quiet I can barely hear it. I see Spot pulling me into him, wrapping his arms around me. I close my eyes, giving into it when I feel a faint warmth. 

I listen to his heartbeat until he lifts my chin up to look at my face. 

"I'll sell your papes at the lodging house." He says, and I shake my head. 

"Sketch, a-and Sunny, they need the m-money," I breathe out, but somehow Spot can hear my words. 

"Here," He says, taking off his red flannel and wrapping it around me. He sits me down on a dusted off bench while he manages to sell the last papes. Once he does, the showoff, he comes back and picks me up in his arms, bridal style. 

"You're safe." He says as he slowly walks to the lodge, his shoulders bare in the gray cold. 

I curl inward and closer to him as he yells something I can't make out. I close my eyes and open them occasionally, but they fall shut as Spot enters the lodge. 

"Sketch, get out of the bed," Someone says, and I hear someone crying. 

"I didn't mean to-"

"Don't worry, kid, it's not your fault," Someone else says, consoling the other person. I open my eyes to find Spot wrapping my flannel around me. 

"Spot, Jack-" He shakes his head. 

"I know about Jack, Cass. We're gonna find him. Sleep." He says, with his hand still on my shoulder. I take his hand in my cold one, and although I can't feel anything, I squeeze it. He smiles, and I think he squeezes it back. 

I close my eyes, my breathing quick but light, as I drift off. More newsies yell, incoherent but desperate, a door slams, and with that, sleep greets me like an old friend.

That is the price to pay for warmth.


	7. chapter 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning!!! : use of the word sl*t. semi-graphic descriptions of knives, waterboarding. mention of death.

My eyes open to a nearly empty lodge. I look around, not moving my head. I see Blink in his bunk above Smalls, their small frames still sleeping. I blink, my eyelids still heavy. 

It's daylight out.

I look at my hand in front of my face. I can feel the mattress underneath it, my fluffy hair against my face, my aching chest and- I can feel. 

What a stark contrast from yesterday. 

I move my fingers, feeling the air around them. I sit up, dunning a hand through my hair and blinking again. 

Where is everyone? No one is here, not even the kids, and Jack is-

Jack is still missing. I grab my flannel and push my arms through it. I gingerly touch my bare feet to the wooden floor, causing the floorboards to creak. I locate my now clean socks and sit down on Race's bed carefully to put them on. 

My muscles feel stiff, and my skin feels cold to the touch still; but progress is progress.

I stick my socked feet into my boots and stand up, beginning to button my flannel, when I hear yelling. 

Yelling?

I will myself downstairs, and I open the door of the lodge, finding a confusing scene. 

"Where is Jack, Ghost?!" The voice belongs to Spot. A crowd of newsies, a mixture of 'Hattan, Brooklyn, and Newark stand in front of a crowd of Queens and Bronx newsies. I close the door to the lodge, pushing my way through the crowd. 

Spot and Pigeon stand off with Ghost and Sparrow to the right of where I once stood at the lodge door. 

"You needn't worry your pretty little heads about that," Ghost says with a gleeful giggle. I find myself standing between Spot and Pigeon, glaring at the boy. 

"Where is my brother?" I ask, my words faltering a little in fear. Sparrow's eyes flick to me, while Ghost fixes his gaze on my eyes.

"Why, welcome to the show, Cass," Ghost spreads his arms out, and I clench my fists. Spot glances over, and I look at both him and Pigeon. 

The show?

This is all a game to him?

"The show, huh." I answer, stepping forward, until I see the knife in Ghost's hand. He reaches for my forearm and turns me around, so I'm facing Spot and Pigeon, and forces me to my knees. 

"No!" Spot yells, and Pigeon pulls him back. 

"Let her go, Ghost." Pigeon holds his hands out. I watch the newsies in the crowd, the newsies who are missing one leader. 

The newsies who didn't ask for any of this.

Who never deserved any of this. 

"On the contrary. We'll take her, and you can have your little cowboy back." Sparrow says, walking in front of me, back and forth. 

Pacing with a smirk. 

"No! Let them go, Ghost." Spot says, and I notice Pigeon's gaze fixed on me. 

"Tut, tut. If you don't take our offer, she dies." Ghost says, and I feel a smooth cold resting against my neck. 

The knife.

I pray to the gods that Pigeon can read lips as I look at him again.

'I'll escape.' 

He nods.

'Two hours.'

I raise my eyebrows once to let him know I understand, and he nods. He looks at Ghost. 

"Fine. We'll take the Cowboy." Pigeon says, and Spot grabs his shoulders, shaking him. 

"What the hell are you doing?!" He yells, and Pigeon gently pries Spot away from him. 

"Cass!" Jack's voice rings in everyone's ears. 

Everyone's attention looks to the center to find the leader of Manhattan, held by a Bronx newsie. 

"Jack," I smile with relief. He looks the same as he did when I last saw him, except-

Except his eyes. 

His eyes hold trauma. 

The trauma I haven't seen since we escaped the Refuge, together. 

Whatever he went through, with them, it was worse. 

"Enough." Ghost yanks me to my feet by the scruff of hair on my neck, causing me to grit my teeth. 

"Wait, no!" Spot yells. I find Racetrack, Crutchie, Sarah, even Katherine in the crowd with heartbroken expressions, tears in their eyes. 

Davey and Les are right behind Pigeon.

Everyone is holding their breath, on their toes, eyes wide. 

Nobody moves a muscle. 

Nobody makes a sound.

My breathing sounds like the ocean's crashing waves in my ears, deafening. 

"Don't worry, Spottie boy. You'll get your little slut back." Ghost sneers, pulling me back. I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to claw at his hands, to bite, to kick, to do anything but stay limp in his hand. 

"At a price." He says finally, and pulls me into the crowd. The crowd swallows us, and I can only hear the yelling of Spot and Jack. 

I'm sat in the basement of the Queens lodge, with is basically a table with a lightbulb over it. 

"Lay down." Ghost says, gesturing to the table. I sit on it, shaking like a leaf, and I rest my back on the surface. 

"Who has the key to Brooklyn?" Ghost's lips almost don't move. My brows knit in confusion as Sparrow appears on my other side with a rag and several Coca-Cola bottles filled with water. 

The key to Brooklyn? What key to Brooklyn?

"Why?" I ask, and Ghost clenches his jaw. 

"We need it." He says simply, and I feel a pair of hands on each of my ankles. A pair of newsies I don't recognize hold my shins down, expressions blank. 

"I-I don't know," I answer honestly. 

Sparrow places the cloth over my nose and mouth, and I feel Ghost's scarred hands on my forearms, holding me down. 

Water soaks the cloth, causing my breath to catch. I gasp for air, but only water comes through as Sparrow continues to pour more of the bottle. My body writhes in attempt to get out of their grasp, lungs stinging from lack of air.

Sparrow presses down on the cloth, so no air makes it through.

No. No, this can't be happening. 

This is what Jack meant. He went through this. 

They tried to kill him.

Suddenly the cloth is removed, and I gasp for air, my chest lifting off the table. My lungs instantly feel relief, and I open my eyes; I didn't even realize they were closed. 

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, and Ghost chuckles. 

"Ladies shouldn't swear." He says softly with a quick laugh, and I look him dead in the eye, chest rising up and down with every breath.

"Get fucked."

Ghost's smile disappears as I feel his hand over my neck, squeezing. The air loses, and my arms claw at his, scratching, until Sparrow pulls him away. Ghost looks at him, furious, and grabs his shirt. My lungs burn as I watch, trying to breathe. 

"Soak her again. Make her remember it." He says, shakes his head, and then goes back to holding my arms down. 

I hold my breath as the wet cloth is back over my face. More water droplets enter my nose. Parts of my neck are wet with the water, tears starting to flow down my face as I try to kick away from them. The same sensations are all I can think about until it the cloth finally leaves. 

I lay limp on the table, focusing on steadying my breathing and waiting for them to leave. 

They do, silently, for some reason. The door slams. 

I open my eyes, finding that I'm once again sitting alone. I look at my surroundings. 

There's a window I missed. 

How convenient. 

I will my pinky to move, then the rest of my fingers, one by one. I wipe the water from my face while I work on moving the rest of my body. 

I push the small window open, and crawl out just as the door opens. 

I book it. 

"Run run run run run run," I mutter as I run through neighborhoods of tenements and wood and brick and peeling paint until I see the border up ahead. 

I hear faint yelling behind me. 

"They haven't found me yet," I mutter, picking up the speed of my feet and crossing the border, heading into 'Hattan. 

I duck into an alleyway on my left breathing heavily as I look further in the alleyway to find a fire escape. 

"Thank god," I grab hold of the ladder and climb, and climb, and climb until my muscles scream at me to give up. I pull the upper half of my body onto the roof, swinging my legs after. I stand up, looking ahead. 

Straight shot to the lodge. 

I run, jumping at the last second. The flat soles of my boots land on the next roof with ease. I smile softly, realizing I haven't lost the skill of jumping rooftops. 

I continue doing so for the next five roofs until I get to the alleyway next to the lodge. I poke my head out to make sure no Queens or Bronx newsies were around, before darting across the street and running inside. 

"Jack! Where's Jack? Where's my brother?" I yell, trying to still catch my breath. 

Someone grabs my shirt, and then hugs me. 

"You crazy son of a gun!" Jack wraps his arms tightly around me, pulling away and holding my face in his hands. I crack a wide smile, laughing, and tackling him in a hug in return.

"You're safe!" I yell in a celebratory way, and he laughs, rubbing my back. 

"Yeah, yeah I'm just fine. You're safe, too," Jack beams at me, and I can't help but smile still. Jack looks up, as if remembering something, and I knit my brows. 

"What is it?" I ask before turning around. 

I find Pigeon and Spot standing on the stairs. Pigeon lunges forward and picks me up by my hips, spinning as he does so, and I laugh in shock. 

"Little Kelly's back!" He cheers, pulling me into a hug. I smile. 

"Right scare, there, Pidge," I nudge him away from me before I turn to Spot. Pigeon pats my shoulder once or twice before going to talk to Jack about something. 

Spot's closer now, but still looks as if he has no idea what to say or do in this situation. 

He spits into his hand, and holds it out. 

Always the charmer.

I spit into my own, and take his rough, calloused, yet smooth hand in my own smaller one, letting small smile play on my face.

I pull him closer and into a soft hug. 

"I missed you." I mutter softly into his neck, and I feel his hands on my lower back, just like in the bathroom. 

"I missed you too, dollface." He buries his face in my hair, and I bury mine in his. 

Everyone goes back to their knitting, leaving us alone. 

As I breathe in Spot's minty breath and the scent of the ocean water in his hair, I remind myself of this one thing; until I feared I would lose it, I did not love breathing.

No one does.


	8. chapter 8.

By midnight, my throat feels sore and the skin of my neck aches. 

"Cass, your neck," Spot says, pointing to it, and I cock an eyebrow. 

"What about it?" I touch the side of it lightly with my fingertips, wincing when the ache worsens, pulling them back. Spot takes my hand and pulls me upstairs and into the bathroom, showing me what it looks like in the mirror.

The bruises are white on the insides, while they're red and black and blue around the edges. I grimace at the sight, until I work up the nerve to look at them closer.

They are in the shape of Ghost's handprint.

He left a mark.

My eyes widen in the realization. I touch another one, wincing again

"Cass, what did they do to you?" Spot asks, placing a gentle hand on my back. I look at him before leaning forward, still examining the bruises, poking and prodding. 

Spot grabs my hand, stopping me from touching them. I look at him again, my jaw falling a little. 

"He-" I catch myself, clearing my throat before continuing. "He strangled me a bit."

The words sound foreign on my tongue, and Spot clenches his jaw before brushing past me and out of the bathroom. 

"Spot, wait!" I shout, turning on my heel and following him, fear setting in my chest. I grab his forearm above his clenched fist, and he stops, letting me walk in front of him. 

"Please don't go down there." I tell him softly, eyes wide. His eyes are angry; the most angry I've ever seen. They weren't even this angry during the strike. 

This is different to him. 

"He put his hands on you, Cass." He says shortly before brushing past me again. I close my eyes, clenching my fists in front of myself lightly before turning and running downstairs after him. 

"Spot, stop! I'm serious!" I hiss as he opens the door. I grab the door and shove it closed with all my strength, separating him and the door. My nose is only inches from his lips, forcing me to look up at him. 

I can feel the anger radiating off of him on waves.

"Cass." Spot sighs, reaching around me for the door, but falters when I cover it from him. 

"Spot, please. They will kill you if they catch you." I tell him. He seems to falter again, but clenches his jaw instead, as if trying to decide what to do. 

Nearly five minutes later, he deflates.

"Fine. But the next time I see that son of a bitch, I'm soaking him." He says, pointing at the door. I let out a breath I didn't know I was keeping in, leaning back against the door. 

I smile, blinking before looking back at him. He rolls his eyes at my reaction. I stifle a giggle, but he smiles as well. 

"Thank you." I tell him, placing a hand on his chest. He smiles a little wider. 

"Gotta get revenge for my girl, don't I?" He says, and I raise my eyebrows. 

"I-I'm your girl?" I ask. I mentally slap myself across the face for stuttering as I turn red, keeping my mouth shut. Spot's face turns red just as I feel something under his shirt. 

"What's that?" I ask, noticing a long, thin chain around his neck. He swallows and pulls it from under his shirt, showing me the small, shiny black key. The same one he's always had, that every newsie who held the title 'King of Brooklyn' has had, since... well, forever. 

"The key to Brooklyn." He says softly, and my eyes widen as his fingertips place it into my palm. I stare at it for a few seconds before looking up at him. 

The basement. The lightbulb above my head.

Ghost. 

"Spot, Ghost asked for this." I tell him, holding the key in my fingertips. 

His eyebrows knit in confusion, his eyes flitting from the key to my eyes and back again. 

"Jack, we might have a problem." He says, turning around and gesturing for Jack to come over. Jack stands up with Pigeon from the table they were sitting at, and the two of them walk over. 

"What is it?" He asks, before looking at the key in my fingertips. He looks between Spot and I, seeming to put the peieces together. 

"Did he ask you for that key, too?" Jack asks, and I nod, hands shaking. 

This is bad. Very very bad. 

Pigeon looks between us, and Spot raises his eyebrows. 

"Ghost was asking for this?" He plucks it gently from my fingers. Jack nods, running his hands through his hair. 

"Spot, no one can know you have that key. If Ghost finds out you have it, he will kill you." I tell him, grabbing his forearms, and he tucks it back under his shirt. He brushes some of my hair out of my eyes. 

"I'll be fine. Why does he want it?" He asks, glancing at Jack, who looks at him in annoyance. 

"Quit touching my sister like that, and maybe because he knows he'll have access to half the gas and food in New York, so long as he has that key." He pokes Spot's chest with his finger, and I swat at him, causing him to swat me back. 

"Be nice. How would he get all that stuff?" I place my hands on my hips, cocking an eyebrow. 

"Slow on the uptake there, sweets," Pigeon nudges my shoulder, causing me to push him back.

"Shut it, jackass," I roll my eyes, looking back at Jack and Spot, who both exhale in exasperation. 

"The key opens every building a newsie would need in Brooklyn. Warehouses, the lodge, etc. Those warehouses have gasoline and food in them." Spot explains, using hand gestures as well. I nod, understanding, putting two and two together. 

"Is Queens low on resources?" I ask, and Jack shakes his head. 

"They never are. They have underground connections with gangsters to get theirs. 'Hattan and Brooklyn share those warehouses." Jack adds, so I run a hand through my hair. 

The Whyos, the Five Points, and the Eastman gangs all nearly run New York City, and the Bronx newsies were well-known for their connections with them. It didn't surprise any of us that Queens had started making deals with them as well. 

'Hattan and Brooklyn respected the gangs, but we don't make very many deals with them unless it's for protection. 

All the gangs are on Queens' side, though.

"Why would they want the key then?" I mutter. My eyelids feel heavy, as do my muscles; they're still recovering from yesterday's freeze. 

"Well, we can think about it over Thanksgiving. Katherine convinced Pulitzer to somehow give us the weekend off. No news on Thanksgiving anyway." Jack says, and I nod, yawning.

"Great." Thanksgiving was a bit of a waste as well, as far as asking any newsie what they thought of it. 

Yeah, Thanksgiving. Full of feasts fit for kings; but even if we are the kings of boroughs full to the brim with newsies, we never will have a feast. 

Maybe a few crumbs. 

"If they get that key, they could burn down any building they wanted." Pigeon says tiredly, and I look at him. 

"Why would they want to?" I stick my hands in my pockets, leaning back against the door again. Jack shrugs, rubbing his face. 

"Pick off newsies. They'd be selling more papes." He says, and I bite my lip. I look at Spot, who rubs the back of his neck. 

"Maybe I should keep it here." He says, and Jack shakes his head. 

"If they got in here, they'd kill any one of us to get it. Same with Brooklyn." He says, starting his pacing. I notice that there are no bruises on his neck at all, but his eyes are glassy from sickness. 

"How do you know?" Pigeon asks, and I kick his shin with my socked foot, narrowing my eyes at him, while Jack and Spot facepalm themselves. 

"They almost killed Jack and Cass! You think they wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone else here?!" Spot hisses at Pigeon, pinching the bridge of his nose, while Jack smacks Pigeon over the back of his head. 

"Ow! Okay, I'm sorry! But haven't you noticed they never really tried to get Spot and I? They only went after the two of you since the war started." Pigeon says, holding his hands up in defense. Jack and I share a look, thinking about it. 

Maybe Pidge is right. 

Not only that, but Ghost and Sparrow wanted me first. And they had me in their clutches a second time. 

Maybe it is something against Manhattan. 

Something against Jack and I. 

I look at Jack, worried. He purses his lips for a second. 

"We'll handle it later. Let's all just get some sleep." He says, and I nod, looking between Spot and Pigeon. Pidge ruffles my hair before continuing to talk to Jack about the situation leaving Spot and I alone at the door. 

I look up at him, biting my lip. He blinks, biting his lip as he looks down at me. The dark circles under his eyes are noticable, and I notice his eyes are glassy as well. 

"Are you feeling alright?" I ask, reaching a hand up to feel his forehead with the back of it. 

"Just a cold, probably." He says with a small smile. I nod, bringing my hand back down but making a mental note to give him some Coca-Cola. I take a deep breath, feeling my rib again. The pain from it has become normal, though breathing deep causes it to be worse. 

The bandages feel old and sticky. 

"What about you?" He asks, placing the back of his hand over my forehead. I shrug a little. 

"I feel fine." I answer, and he laughs. 

"You damn liar," He snickers, pulling his hand away, and I stick my tongue out at him. 

"Am not. But if you want to help change these bandages, that would be lovely." I tell him, tapping the top of my chest. He nods. 

"Alright, let's go."

We walk upstairs and back into the bathroom. I grab a pair of scissors and more gauze bandages before standing in front of the Blood Sink with Spot. I take off my shirt carefully, before holding my arms out. 

"Ready?" He asks, and I nod. 

"Ready as I'll ever be." 

He starts cutting the bandages, which Specs had wrapped thick, and it takes at least three minutes before he makes it up to the top of where the wraps stop. He pries the bandages off me, and when he does I look down to find purple. 

The entire left side of my chest is painted with dark purple and black and navy blue. We both grimace, remarking in disgust. 

"God, that looks awful," Spot says, and I nod, curling slightly inward. He puts a hand on my shoulder, causing me to look up a little.

"Specs said it would heal within six weeks." He says, and I nod, smiling a little at the reassurance. 

"Can't wait." I mumble while he brushes my hair out of my face. He smiles sadly. 

"I know, doll. I can't wait to see your skin healthy again," He says softly, tilting my head up to look at him. I smile a little wider. 

The bandages have left white bits of dust on my skin, leaving Spot and I to take some rags and wipe them away before he started wrapping new ones. 

"Arms up," He says, and I do so. He begins wrapping the bandages, not too tight, and not too loose either. I smile softly as he finishes, stuffing the end into the other bandages. I slip back into my shirt and my flannel before I look up at him. 

He smiles. 

"Better?" He asks, and I nod, smiling back. 

"Yes. Thank you," I tell him, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around him. 

I imagine that this broken rib must feel like a broken heart; this must be how it feels to have to stop loving.


	9. chapter 9.

"Do you ever think about marriage?" The question completely catches me off guard, and I stare at Blink for about thirty seconds before answering. If I'm honest, I don't think he can believe he asked me that either. 

Spot is sleeping in my bed (since he's had less sleep than I have in the past week) and Smalls is half asleep on Blink's. We decided to stay up for a while, like we used to with Smalls. She needed the sleep, though, and Blink and I were feeling better than we thought after our bodies froze. 

"Sometimes. Why?" I look over. We've placed ourselves between two tables. He leans against one and I lean against the wall, tired. Race and Crutchie are telling the little ones stories again, with Elmer and Albert this time; I don't think they could help themselves. 

Jack is downstairs talking with Davey, Pigeon, Specs, and some of the others while Kath and Sarah stayed up here with some of the other newsies and Les, recalling memories from the summer. 

I didn't lie, though. Sometimes I thought about getting married. I know better, as a newsie, but if it's not like hoe Jack used to think about Santa Fe, well...

"Well... I dunno. I just think about it is all." Blink answers. I push his foot with my hand, smirking. 

I see the way he looks at Smalls.

"You want to marry Smalls one day, don't you?" I whisper, and I can tell he's flustered by the silence. Of course he does; everyone can tell, and who wouldn't want to be around Smalls the rest of their lives?

She's like the sun, and she's always wanted to visit a beach one day. Blink and I promised her once that we would take her down south, probably to Virginia, so that she could see the beach one day. 

Her eyes got wide as saucers and she lit up like the sun and the moon and all the stars. 

She was ecstatic. 

After that, Blink and I promised that we would make it happen for her; if there was anything a newsie deserved, it was to see their dream come true. 

"Well, yeah. I'd love to marry her," Blink says in a dreamy sort of way; I wouldn't be surprised if he told me right then and there that he'd actually dreamed of it. 

"It'd cost too much, though. Bringing a priest in here. And besides, who wants to get married in a newsies lodge?" He says, and I smile sadly. Sometimes, being a newsie and being in love didn't go together well as you get older. 

Unless you got another job, that is.

"Still. Have you asked her to be your girl yet?" I ask, and he shakes his head. I hear his hair against the table. 

"No."

"Well, why not?"

Blink lifts his head off the table. 

"What if she says no?" Blink meets my eyes in the dim light of the room, and I sigh. 

"Blink, if you don't ask, you'll never be with her." I tell him, and he shrugs, looking at the floor beside him. 

"What if there's someone else? Like with Jack, Katherine, and Sarah?" He asks, and I raise an eyebrow, confused. 

Have I been gone this much? Really? 

I don't even know what going on with Jack and his girlfriend. 

"What about Jack, Katherine, and Sarah?" I ask, leaning forward. Blink clears his throat. 

"Some love triangle bullshit. I don't even know what's going on. But apparently all three of them like each other." He says, and I raise my eyebrows. I doubt Jack would tell me if I pestered him about it, but whatever happens with them, rhe lodge wouldn't really care. 

"Crazy times we live in," I mutter, leaning back against the wall. Blink nods, and I look over at him, tired. 

"There is no one else. She only has eyes for you, Blink. You see the way she lights up whenever you're around?" I point out, yawning straight afterwards. Blink shrugs. 

"She's our best friend. She lights up when you're around, too." He says sadly, and I reach over, flicking his forehead. He smacks my hand away, causing me to giggle. 

"She loves you, Blink. When she wakes up, ask her to be your girl. Watch what happens." I point in his face, and he sticks his tongue out. 

"Okay, I will." He says, and a beat of silence passes before he speaks again.

"You know, I think you and Spot will get married one day." I choke on my spit. 

"You what?" I ask after my coughing fit. Blink currently is laughing his ass off. 

"I think you and Spot will get married one day." He repeats himself amidst his giggles. I cover my face with my hand, and Blink continues his laughing. 

"Probably not." I mutter, hugging my knees to my chest. Blink looks at me, and then rolls his eyes. 

"You know, I'm gonna give you the same advice that you gave me. Ask. Obviously not now, you're both fifteen. But, you two love each other. Every damn newsie in this lodge can tell." He says, and I smile softly. 

"Thanks, Blink."

"You got it, Cass."

\---

Human contact is... weird. The only people I've ever had really long hugs with have been Jack and Spot. 

Even their hugs didn't last more than a minute. 

"Hey, Cass?" Spot links his pinky with mine on the way to Jacobi's. I look up at him through the cold.

"What's up?" I ask as we walk, and he looks down at me, smiling softly as snow continues to fall. 

The snow falling has been the most I've seen in forever. Last year it snowed, but not this much. 

"Well, remember last night when you asked me if you were my girl?" He asks, and I nod, my face turning red. 

"What about it?" I ask nervously, looking up at him, and he laughs a little, looking ahead at Jacobi's. The snow must at lesst be four inches. 

"Before you asked about the key," He says before clearing his throat, "I was going to say yes." 

I stop, looking up at him. He stops a few steps ahead of me, fingers still linked. After what feels like an infinity staring at him, I crack a smile. 

He leans forward, pressing his lips against my cheek. They're warm, and his breath still smells like mint; my cheek aches as he leans back.

Nobody's ever done that before.

"I am the luckiest newsie in New York," I link his other pinkie with mine. He smiles widely, unlinking our fingers and holding my face in his hands. 

"No. That's me." He says before kissing my nose softly; I almost don't feel it. 

We walk into Jacobi's with giddy smiles and everything, linked pinkies again, and sit down at the same table in the far corner, like the other day.

Maybe that wish did come true.


	10. chapter 10.

Spot sits on my bed and I sit with my legs crossed, facing him, with a pad of paper and a pencil. His forehead lazily lulls on my shoulder, tired. I clear my throat, looking down at him. I link our pinkies, yawning. 

"Could you teach me how to fight?" I ask softly, and Spot lifts his head, cocking an eyebrow in confusion. It's the day after Thanksgiving, and luckily nobody's gotten hurt; but I want to be prepared the next time I'm faced with Sparrow and Ghost. 

I don't want to be off guard again. 

I don't want to have to rely on being able to escape. I'm done running; next time, if they want to catch me, they'll have to fight me.

"I'd rather wait until your rib heals for that," He says quietly, linking our pinkies. His eyes are filled with concern, and I bite my lip. 

Spot always knew how to fight, and everyone knew it. 

I bite my lip before yawning again, wishing I didn't have these injuries. I look back up at him, tired. 

"I want to be prepared." I add, setting the paper and pencil on my pillow. Spot turns more toward me, confused. He takes both of my hands in his, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. 

"Prepared for what?" He asks quietly. I open my mouth, and when nothing comes out, I close it. I repeat that sequence, looking down, until Spot tilts my chin up with his fingers. 

His expression is kind and sympathetic.

"You're safe here, Cass. They can't find you now." He says before giving me a small smile. 

That smile spreads like butter and makes you feel safe in every possible way. My chest flutters as I see it, and I smile softly. 

"You're the best, Spot Conlon." I mutter, and he laughs a little, still holding my hands. 

"No one's ever done this before, huh?" He asks, holding on of our interlaced hands up, and I laugh nervously, biting my lip. 

"Is it obvious?" 

Human touch is also fascinating. It's incredible how much you crave the touch of the person you love most. 

Spot laughs, looking down at our laps. 

"Just a little." He mutters loud enough for me to hear, looking back at me. I giggle, closing my eyes a little. 

Still. 

"I want to be able to defend myself." I tell him, and he looks me in the eye for a while. I bite my lip, hopeful; Spot is one of the best fighting newsies in the city. 

You learn from him, you learn from the best.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks, and I nod. 

"With or without a broken rib, I want to hold my own against them." I insist; I don't clench my jaw, and I am not angry. 

I am adamant that I will learn. 

Spot stares at me for a little longer before smiling. 

"What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I didn't help my girl defend herself?" He smirks, threading his fingers through my hair. I smile, breathing a sigh of relief, placing my hands on his forearms. 

He unexpectedly leans forward, kissing the top of my head. I feel the back of my neck tingle. 

No one's ever done that before, either. Except Jack, once or twice. 

"Thank you, Spot." I tell him, and he squeezes my hand. 

"I'm still worried about your rib. How does your chest look?" He asks, and I think for a moment before shrugging. 

"I haven't looked at it since you helped me change the wraps." I answer honestly, and he nods. 

"We'll be careful. You can fight with a broken rib; it's just not easy. You could do it, though." He says, nudging my arm. I raise my eyebrows, leaning back a little. 

"You think so?" I smirk, and Spot smirks back, leaning forward. 

"Yeah, I do. You walking mouth," He says in reference to the strike; he called Davey and I walking mouths every chance he got. Sometimes he still calls Davey a walking mouth just to see him riled up. 

Spot has a way with riling people up; and he doesn't even do it on purpose. He can have the best of intentions going into a conversation and either end up starting a riot or a fight. 

He has done both. 

Neither one is very pretty.

"Cass?" I look up at Spot, stifling a yawn. 

"Yes?"

"Sleep with me?" 

My eyes widen and my jaw drops, my face feels like someone set it on fire, and Spot instantly starts stumbling over his words. He looks exactly how I feel; completely shocked, 

"I-I mean, not like that, I mean, unless- wait, no, just-" I reach forward and cover his mouth with my hand. My eyes are still wide and his voice is muffled now, but at least he's shut it. 

"Sleep next to you, you mean." I clarify, and he nods rather violently. 

I remove my hand before nodding. 

"Yes. Come on," I exhale, laying down on my bed, and I feel one of his shaking arms wrap around me as he lays behind me. 

I push myself up and roll over so I'm facing him, and lay down. I wrap my arms around him, closing my eyes. 

"G'night, Cass." He whispers just before kissing between my brows softly. I close my eyes as he does, before I lightly kiss his cheek. 

He looks surprised, but doesn't question anything. 

I've never done that before. 

"G'night, Spot." I whisper, and we close our eyes, fingers intertwined. 

\---

The lightbulb flickers. 

This time Ghost sits across from me at the table, and no one else is anywhere to be seen. His eyes still look as if their entire irises are consumed by his pupils.

Unsettling, to say the least.

His white hair falls over them as his laced fingers sit in front of his mouth. 

I look at the table to find a chess board with scattered chess pieces. I knit my brows, confused. 

"Your move, Kelly. Choose wisely." He says, and I look up at him. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. 

How did I get here? 

Is this a dream?

I stare at the chess board. I knew only vaguely how to play chess, because of Chess O'Connell. His first night in the lodge, Jack and Davey happened to be playing chess in the corner. 

Chess asked if he could play; he was only twelve at the time, and he beat both Jack and Davey. Several times, actually. So we have a twelve-year-old chess prodigy living in our lodge who refuses to go to chess tournaments. 

I pick up one of my knight pieces and move it to the left and forward. My dusty fingertips leave the piece, and I lean forward, breathing heavy. 

"Be ready, Kelly."

"For...?"

"You'll see."

\---

I sit up in an instant, cold sweat beading on my forehead. My fingers are tangled with Spot's. I release them and run my hands through my hair, looking around the lodge to make sure everyone's there. 

Everyone's fine.

Jack and Crutchie.

I swing my legs and slip down to the floor, barefoot, and make my way to the ladder that leads to the roof. I touch my feet to the cold concrete, seeing a snoring pair leaning against the far railing. I sigh in relief, smiling softly to myself. I let myself drop to the floor inside, landing quietly. 

I climb back up to my bed, making sure not to wake anyone up; especially Race and Spot. 

"Cass?" Spot whispers. Shit. 

"Yeah?" I look up, seeing him push himself up. I sit next to him, biting my lip. 

"What's up?" He asks, and I shake my head. 

"Bad dream." I answer. He rubs my back gently, nodding. 

"Want to talk about it?" Spot bites his lip softly, and I look up at him. 

"It was just Ghost again," I answer, exhaling. I can tell we're both exhausted. 

This was getting old, and we were only been four days in.

"You don't have to tell me all of it." He says, and I nod, looking up at him. 

"No, it's okay. It just... is chess important to him somehow?" I ask, and he thinks for a moment before shaking his head. 

"Not that I can remember." I look down at my lap, tired. Why chess? 

Was it just my head messing with me?

"Did he say anything in the dream?" He asks, and I bite my lip, harder than I mean to. I catch the blood on my tongue. 

"He said to be ready." I answer, and Spot's eyes grow wide. He notices my lip bleeding, bringing his hand to my face and wiping some away with his thumb. 

"That sounds like Ghost, yeah." He mutters bitterly. I nod, and Spot tilts my chin up; has he done this a lot with other people? 

"I'll teach you how to fight when we wake up later. For now, get some sleep. You're safe." He says, and I nod. 

The two of us lay down again, like we did before, and close our eyes. 

I drift in and out of sleep, but ultimately I lay awake, listening to Spot's steady breathing. It looks bright green, healthy, until I hear him huff in frustration. 

"Spot?" I squeeze his hand softly, and he squeezes it back. 

"Can't sleep." He answers, and I nod. 

"I can't either." 

A beat. 

Spot rolls over and hops off the bed onto the floor, yawning and straightening his shirt before heading for the hallway. 

He turns around, cocking an eyebrow while a tired smirk plays on his face in the dark.

"Well? You coming?"


	11. chapter 11.

"Okay, so. We'll use punching bags first, and then go to fighting each other for practice." Spot says, taking off his flannel. I take mine off, setting it near his and biting my lip. 

We walk over to the two punching bags. Spot's expression is serious. I look at the punching bag in front of me, blowing a piece of hair out of my face. 

"First, your stance. Stagger your feet." He says, turning to face me, hands on his hips. 

I turn to him, moving my right foot behind my left, then back a little. He nods. 

"Wider than your hips." He says, and I put more space between my feet. He turns and does the same thing. 

"Move your feet slightly that way; whichever direction the person you're fighting is in. Make sure your knees are facing the same direction. Your weight should be fifty-fifty on each leg." Spot says, and I nod, understanding. He stands straight again, and walks over to me.

He takes my forearm and holds it up between our faces.

"Make a fist." He says, and I do. We look at my fist, and then at each other. 

"You've got really small hands," He cracks a smile, causing me to glance away, face red, "but you can do some real damage with them. Throw a punch." 

He backs away, letting go of my arm, and I look at the punching bag. I bend my knees slightly, naturally, and just as how I watched guys fight in the ring and in the street before, I throw a punch at the punching bag. 

It stings a little as I bring my hand back. The bag barely moved. I look at Spot. He shrugs, but also nods, walking over. 

"You're a small person; you're not gonna move the bag much right now." He says, standing next to the bag. I nod. 

"Make sure to keep your hands in front of your face. It makes it harder for your opponent to get a hit to your face." He says, and I nod. 

"Throw some more punches. Pretend the punching bag is Ghost or something. Something that makes you angry. Being angry helps - but don't get carried away with it." Spot explains, and I nod. 

I work at it for a while. 

Ghost doesn't make me angry. He may be the reason I wanted to learn how to fight, but he doesn't make me angry. 

Ghost scares the living daylights out of me. 

I'd rather be set on fire. 

I don't get angry easily; the last time I was really angry was in July, during the strike. 

I wasn't the only one angry that week. 

After at least a half hour, sweat beads at my face. My chest hurts, but small breaths make up for it. My knuckles are numb, and my feet have become familiar with the floor. 

"Alright?" Spot puts a hand on my shoulder. I nod, a little tired. His eyes widen in a realization, his jaw dropping a bit. 

"Maybe I should've had you stretch first," He says, and I shake my head, smiling. 

"Don't worry. I've run to Brooklyn and back without stretching." I assure him, and his jaw drops a little more. 

"Are you serious?" He asks, and I nod, laughing a little. 

"I promise. My body's been through hell." I tell him, and Spot laughs a little too. 

"Still. Please, be careful. If not for yourself, then for me." He says, ruffling my hair a bit. 

"Do you want to take a break, or do you want to learn a little more before we go and clean ourselves up?" He asks. I bite my lip, hopeful.

"A little more?"

He smiles, nudging my arm. 

"Alright. If you have the chance to get the first punch, go for the nose. With as much power in your arm as you can muster. Their eyes will water, and it's painful; so they won't be very pressed to keep fighting you." He says, and I nod, looking at my hand. Spot has done that to people in fights before, no doubt; I can only imagine how much it would hurt. 

"If you can, preferably with an open palm, you can hit their chin. It'll knock their jaw up," He demonstrates it with his own hand, looking down at me, "and depending on how hard you do it, it can kill them. So be very careful with that one." Spot continues. 

I bite my lip, wondering. 

"What else can that do?" I ask, and Spot grimaces, laughing a bit. 

"It can knock teeth out, cut your tongue, etc. Lots of blood." He answers. My eyes widen as I walk with him to pick up our flannels. 

"Now, if it's a guy, you can kick them in the nuts. When we fight, please, I beg of you, don't do that," He says, and I laugh, holding up my pinky. 

"Pinky swear," I laugh, and he rolls his eyes with a small smile. He links his pinky with mine anyway as we walk into the bathroom. 

"God, you're such a dork." He says. I laugh more, before leaning over the Blood Sink. 

"But I'm your dork." I look at him behind me. He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin, walking closer.

"You are." Spot wraps his arms around my shoulders from behind me; my knees unexpectedly buckle under me. 

"Holy shit, Cass," Spot catches me, and, with my eyes wide, I stand up, holding his arms as he holds mine.

"You put your arm around me and I literally felt my knees buckle. This is so pathetic," I laugh, rest my head on his shoulder. He laughs a little, taking my hands. 

"You don't get much physical contact, do you?" He asks, and I shake my head. 

"Not really, no. Not like this, anyway," I hold our hands up as I lift my head off him. His features soften a little, squeezing my hand. 

"Well, you're getting more of it from now on." He says, pulling me forward into a hug. I giggle, wrapping my arms around him as well. 

"You don't have to," I whisper, pulling away a little with a red face. Spot brings his hand up, holding the side of my face. 

"I want to."

I smile, and he taps the underside of my chin. 

"Come on, we can go get breakfast after we clean up a bit. Deal?" He asks, and I nod. Nothing's been in my mouth since Thanksgiving. 

"Deal."

We splash some water on our faces and in our hair. 

Spot flicks some water at me, and I roll my eyes, flicking some back. 

"Oh hell no," He smirks, flicking water at me with both hands. 

"Spot Conlon, you just started a battle," I smirk back, flicking more water at him. I laugh once I see it get on his suspenders. 

"Oh, is that how it is?" He raises his eyebrows. He fills his cupped hands with water, pouring it on top of my head. My jaw drops, and I do the same; only I throw the water onto the front of his shirt. 

We stare at each other for maybe five seconds before busting into laughter. 

"Did you, see the, look on your face?!" Spot says through his laughing, and I unexpectedly wheeze; causing Spot to laugh even harder. I notice the tears in his eyes as he holds his stomach, his smile as big as I've ever seen it. 

After a few minutes, we're calm, and we look at each other again. Spot stands, walking over, and holding his hand out to me. 

I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. 

"Cass?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." He runs a hand through his hair. I tilt my head to one side. 

"For what?" Spot smiles.

"For making me the happiest man alive."


	12. chapter 12.

"They're WHAT?!" Jack yells, rushing into the lodge disheveled. I raise an eyebrow, looking over as I dry a plate off. His eyes flit around the lodge before landing on me. 

Believe me when I say I never want to see that glare again. 

That's some scary shit. Nearly cried where I stood. 

"You and that asshole from Brooklyn!" He yells, and my eyes widen, setting the plate and the towel on the counter. I take a deep breath before making an attempt at calming him down somehow.

"Jack, just-"

"Cass Kelly, if you tell me to just breathe, I will punch this wall." Jack points at the wall to his left, successfully shutting me up. 

Well, that worked out lovely.

My feet feel glued to the floor as I mold my lips together. His anger and frustration rolls off like an ocean storm, and his eyes could have killed me twelve times over in the past three minutes.

"You're dating Spot Conlon?!" He yells, and I grit my teeth, my jaw opening a bit. Concern paints my face as I walk closer. 

"Yes." I say simply, squeezing my eyes shut, along with my fist, only lightly. 

I was wrong before. Jack Kelly wasn't going to have Spot's neck faster than he could sell a pape. 

It was mine. 

"Why?! Cass, he is a player! Not two months ago he and Race were having their row!" He yells, and I wince. 

"I know that!"

"So why are you with him?!" He asks, pushing my shoulder. I look at his hand, to him, blinking. Regret lines his features, and I clench my jaw. 

"The same reason you're with Katherine. Or Sarah. Or both, hell if I know. But if you push my shoulder again while we're arguing, I will give you a much less civil answer." I poke his chest, hard, turning on my heel. I pluck the plate from the counter, placing it in the rickety old cubbard. 

Jack doesn't say anything but the tension in the room could be cut with a butterknife; it's stifling. 

I have successfully shut up my brother, for once. 

I grab the towel, and wordlessly, I brush past Jack, throwing the towel across the room into the laundry basket. 

I jump the stairs two at a time, making it up to the room. I grab my flannel from my bed and slip my boots on, my hands shaking like leaves. 

After tying the laces, I head for the stairs. I'm stopped when I feel a hand on my arm. 

"Cass, are you okay?" It's Race. 

I close my eyes and exhale before I nod, looking up at him. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," I tell him, and he raises an eyebrow. 

"Are you sure?" He asks, turning me so I face him. I look up at him, sticking my hands in my pockets. 

"I just need to clear my head," I sigh tiredly. I rub my face, trying to blink away tears that threaten to leave my eyes. 

"I'll go with you." He says, walking to grab his flannel off his bed. He buttons it as the two of us walk downstairs. Race opens the door, and the two of us walk into the world. 

We walk for a while in silence, watching our breath float like smoke from a fire in a forest. The sky is gray, like the rest of the city; New York City, at least the way I saw it, was always bleak around Thanksgiving. 

We find ourselves at the harbor at least an hour later. We're sitting on the far end of the docks.

"Why did we sit here? My ass is ftozen to this dock," I mutter, and Race lets out a laugh. 

"Don't look at me, you suggested it."

"Did not, jackass," I retort. Race smiles, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. 

"So what did you need to clear from your head?" He asks, looking at me curiously. 

This is also one of the rare times when you don't see Race's mouth filled with smoke every word he says. 

I sigh, looking at the water before looking back at Race. 

"Jack is pissed." I mutter, looking away. Race nods once out of the corner of my eye. 

"About you and Spot?" He asks, and this time it's my turn to nod. I lean back as I look at the sky, where darker gray clouds were rolling in from afar. 

My hands cover with snow. Race looks at me, leaning back as well. 

"Don't let him bother you about it. No one knows what he's doing with Sarah and Kath, and- and you two are your own people. You have free will." He says, ending his advice with a smug smirk. I flick his good shoulder, smirking back. 

"So you're not mad?" I ask, and Race raises an eyebrow, dusting snow off the backs of his hands. 

"Why would I be?"

"Cuz Spot's your ex," I blurt out, and Race smiles. 

He pushes himself to stand up, and holds a hand out to me. He seems like his usual self; always at least half joking. 

I take his hand, and without slipping on the ice (I don't know how he does it), he pulls me to my feet. 

"I could never be mad at two people for loving each other." He says, and I smile, squeezing his hand lightly. 

"Thank you, Racetrack Higgins." He laughs. 

"Why, you're welcome, Cass Kelly."

\---

"I fucking dare you!" 

Race and I barge into the lodge to find Spot and Jack in fighting stances, facing each other, looking pissed as ever. Newsies surround them, and I push my way through just as it seems like someone is going to throw a punch. 

"Now just what in the HELL is going on here?" I ask, raising my eyebrows and placing my hands on my hips. I look at Jack, and then at Spot. 

"Well?!" I throw my hands in the air, clenching my jaw. It still hurts to do it, but considering the level of unbelievable anger I've reached, I can handle it. 

"Cass, I-" I turn to Jack, seeing that he's straightened himself out. Good.

If he knows what's good for him he'll stay that way. 

"You what?" I ask, and for once, he looks scared of me. Me. 

His scrawny, quiet, shy, and weird little sister. 

"Okay, everyone, back to your knitting." Race says, breaking the silence and dispersing everyone in the lodge. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. Jack steps forward.

"I just- he came in and I was angry, and-" His arms are flailing about, and I bring my hand back to my hip. 

"Did he start all this?" I ask, sticking my hands in my pockets. Jack looks at a loss for words. 

What a day full of surprises. 

"Well, no, but-"

"But nothing. Jack, he's my boyfriend, just like I said before with you and Kath and Sarah. I am not responsible for how you feel about it. And if I hear again about you starting a fight with him just because you don't like that I'm with him, you'll get another lecture, again, from me." I tell him, before I take a deep breath. 

That was a mouthful. 

Jack looks surprised, but nods. 

"I-I'm sorry, Cass." He says, almost sadly, and I exhale. 

I can't revel in it forever.

I frown, stepping forward and hugging him around his middle. 

"It's okay. Just promise to not do it again." I tell him. He wraps his arms around me tightly, and huffs. 

"Fine. But if you hurt her, Conlon, I swear I'll make you swallow your teeth." Jack snarls, and I put a hand on his chest, pushing him back a little. 

"Alright, that's enough for one day." I tell him. He nods, still glaring at Spot, but turns, ruffles my hair, and then heads upstairs without another word. 

I look at Spot; he looks at me with relief. I will my feet to move forward towards him.

"I've never seen him that scared before." He comments when I reach him. I giggle. 

"Neither have I. That entire conversation was... a surprise." I reply, and it makes Spot smile, taking my hands in his once again. The action provides relief, safety; he makes me feel safe. 

"You had your first badass moment." He laughs, and I laugh with him. 

I don't say it, but I personally believe that my first badass moment was surviving the Refuge.


	13. chapter 13.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic descriptions of injuries and blood.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I ask, standing in front of the Blood Sink mirror in the lodge with Race and Jojo. The boys are in their suits, and I watch my body clothed in one of Katherine's old party dresses.

The sweetheart let me borrow it, and I'm still scheming of a way to repay her. 

It wasn't as snug on me as it is now, but Tipper fixed it up somehow. I don't know as much about sewing as her and Sarah.

I'll admit I wasn't sold on the idea of a party easily. A Queens or Bronx newsie could've found out by now and come up with aplan to sneak in, or Pulitzer could've organized for the bulls to come.

"Of course! C'mon Cass, it'll be fun!" Jojo says nudging my elbow, and I bite my lip, taking one last look in the mirror before looking up at the boys. 

"Alright, let's go." 

It doesn't take long to make it to The World building. I walk with Jojo, Race, and Tipper since Blink and Smalls went with Davey and Les. Jack left with Sarah and Katherine ehen she came to pick them up.

A man in a suit looks us over as we enter, asking if we wanted a drink. Glasses full of what looks like champagne sit elegantly on the tray he holds. 

"Is that champagne?" Race asks, voicing my thoughts, and the man nods. 

"It is," He then proceeds to say a French-sounding name that I couldn't utter if I tried for my life. I observe the color of the champagne as I think. 

I feel so out of place here. All of these people are so wealthy it's sickening; I can't imagine being able to afford even the little stars inside the champagne.

Jojo taps my shoulder.

"Do you want something to drink, miss?" The man asks with a hint of annoyance in his tone, and I rub my neck sheepishly. 

"D-Do you have any coffee?" I ask, and the man scoffs before turning on his heel and leaving. I bite my lip, wringing my hands together.

Tipper and I share a look before giggling a little. It's just like us to piss off rich folks, accidentally and on purpose. Just like all newsies, really. I start to feel a little better about the situation.

Maybe I should've just taken the champagne. 

"You awful mess of a girl," Tipper jokes, nudging my shoulder as we walk together through the room. It looks soaked in golden light, almost. I have to say, I have to agree with her. 

I stop when a boy walks up to us, his eyes fixed on Tipper and a small polite smile playing on his lips. His demeanor is well-meaning and he looks as though he's from the higher class, like Katherine. His black hair is neat and his eyes are gray like mine. He looks to be around eighteen.

"Excuse me, miss, but I couldn't help but as if you'd like to dance?" He asks, extending his hand to her. Noticing the excitement in her eyes, I nudge her forward with a quick smirk, and she flashes me a thankful smile before taking his hand. He kisses her knuckles and leads her onto the ballroom floor. 

I feel a tap on my shoulder, distracting me from watching my friends dance; I look up to find Spot standing next to me with two mugs. 

"Hey," I smile as one of the mugs finds its way into my hands, warming my hands to the point of comforting burns. A light brown liquid, coffee, swirls in them, and Spot smiles as he takes a sip of his. 

My knight in shining armor got the coffee.

"Hey, sweetheart." He says, one of his arms snaking around my waist. I feel blood rush to my face as I make an attempt to cover it up; I take a sip of the coffee in my mug. 

I practically melt. High end coffee is strong yet sweet.

"How's your kingdom?" I ask him, noticing he's cleaned up; there's not a touch of dirt on him at the moment. He shrugs. 

"One big zoo." He answers, and I laugh a little as I drink more of the coffee. Spot's fingers tap on my waist, and I glance down at them before looking up at him. He finishes his mug before setting it on a table behind us, and then extends his hand to me. 

"Wanna dance?" Spot asks, and I bite my lip. 

"I would, but I don't know how." I answer before downing the rest of my coffee. I turn and set the cup next to Spot's empty one, before he takes my hand. 

"Spot, wh-" I start, before he places one hand on my waist, and putting his index finger over my lips, shushing me. He then uses two fingers under my chin to tilt it upward, forcing me to look up at him. 

Needless to say, I have been shushed. 

"If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it," He smirks, taking my hand. I smile a little, following his lead. Spot isn't wrong; my feet follow his with ease. 

"You're a natural." Spot's lips curve upwards in a kind smile, and I smile a little more as I spin under his arm. The skirt of the blue dress swirls around my calves until I stop, and Spot spins this time, picking me up by my hips. 

My eyes widen and my hands instinctively rest on his shoulders to steady myself as he sets me back down on the floor.

"Wow," I whisper as we continue dancing; Spot laughs a little, and I cock an eyebrow. Just how the hell does he know how to dance?

"How'd you learn to dance, King of Brooklyn?" I ask, and he smiles a bit.

"My mother." He answers. My heart sinks to my stomach as I nod. He never talks about his life before becoming a newsie, and I never pressed him about it. I never will; but whenever he does, it's uncharted territory. 

He notices and swallows thickly as the end of the song approaches. He lets go of me and we bow to each other before he pulls me with him through the crowd of thousands. 

I find us on a balcony outside, staring at a sky full of stars. Spot's fingers haven't left mine, and I look up at him. 

"Hey, I'm sorry for-" He covers my mouth with his other hand, expression blank. My eyes grow wide again, and he removes it quickly. 

"It's okay, sweetheart." He says, and I nod, biting my lip. I look back up at the sky; the stars looks like little diamonds on a woman's dress I saw at the party. I glance at Spot occasionally, and eventually he glances back. 

A whistle snaps us back to reality. 

The bulls. 

Spot and I take one good look at each other before muttering, "Shit," and booking it inside the ballroom. 

The entire party is in disarray. Women are screaming and dodging out of the way of the bulls, men are yelling and getting into fights in every line of sight. Newsies book it in every direction. 

"Spot," I go to grab his hand, but he already has me covered. I look up at him; we're nearly in a war zone all on its own. 

"Get the Brooklyn newsies out of here." I tell him, and he squeezes my shoulder suddenly.

"Stay alive, Cass." Spot says with nearly heartbroken eyes, kissing my forehead before joining another Brooklyn girlsie, Joy. Literally a joy to be around, I tell you.

I take a strong pin from my hair and pin the skirt of the dress up a little to make it easier to run, before taking off across the ballroom, dodging people as I go. I end up near Crutchie, and the moment I hear him yelp in pain is when I snap. 

There is no way I'm letting him get taken to the Refuge again. 

I whip around Crutchie, ducking in front of him, knees bent, and with my open palm, I punch the bull's chin upwards. 

A little harder than I meant to, but it does the trick. 

I duck out of the way with Crutchie before any blood can get on us, before looking at him and examining his face, helping him to his feet. The bull yells, holding his mouth as blood sprays everywhere. I notice a few teeth on the ground and his jaw looks dislodged. 

That did the trick.

"Are you okay?!" I ask, and Crutchie looks the most shaken up I've seen him since this summer, getting out of the Refuge.

"Y-Yeah, wh-what was that?" He asks, his eyes wild as they search mine, and I shake my head, frantic. 

"I'll explain later. Can you walk?" I ask, my hands on his shoulders, and he nods. 

"Y-Yeah, I'll b-be fine," He manages out, and I nod, helping him towards an exit before I feel someone pull on the back of my hair, hard.

Images of Ghost and Sparrow in the street dance across my memory for a second, until someone yells my name. Something trickles down the back of my neck. 

Suddenly I'm on the floor, staring at people's feet. I'm on my side. 

I catch a glimpse of white hair before I feel a kick to my rib. 

My broken fucking rib. 

My tears are hot and my scream stops those nearby. I can't hear anything except for a ringing in my ears.

It doesn't take long for my vision to go black. 

The only thing I see is a white knight chess piece, standing in front of my hand on the floor. There is no chess board. The piece is wooden with white paint and glaze.

If that was Ghost who got me in the ballroom, is this what he meant by "be ready"? 

I wake up in the lodge with newsies all over the place. I push myself to sit up until I feel a stabbing pain in my side. 

"Fuck," I hiss, holding it carefully. 

"Get Jack and Spot, she's awake," Blink says to someone, heaving himself onto the end of my bed. His eyebrow has a huge gash in it, and his knuckles are completely covered in bruises. There's a strand of his hair stained red, and he's sporting a black eye under the eyebrow with the gash. 

"How're feeling, girly?" He asks, and I take a few slow breaths before looking Blink in the eye. 

"Like I was stepped on. What happened?" I ask, and Blink grimaces. 

"You kind of were. I'll let Jack and Spot explain." He says, and I nod as Jack stands on Race's bed to see me. Spot sits on the other side of Blink, looking me over closely. 

Jack has dried blood under his now-crooked nose, and his collarbone looks completely out of place. His knuckles are coverwd in bruises as well, which are covered in white paint; he painted stars on his bruises. His right cheek is split and bruising all across. 

Spot looks the worst out of the three boys; if it weren't for his suspenders, I wouldn't have recognized that it was him. He's got a black eye, bruising on both cheeks that matches mine, bruises on his neck, collarbone, and dried blood all over in his hair. The black of his hands are cut and bruised and wrapped with bandages, and he also has a busted lip. 

"What happened?" I ask them, leaning foreard carefully, staring at the congealed blood on their faces. I don't reach out to touch Spot's injuries like last time. Jack winces and Spot bites his lip, looking away. They're trying to avoid answering. 

They don't want to talk about it. 

Spot finally breaks the silence. 

"Ghost found out about the party." He says, and I clench my jaw before unsetting it. 

I fucking knew it. 

"What else?" I ask in a low but even voice, staring intensely between Jack and Spot. Blink watches the ordeal, clearly debating whether he should stay or go. 

"He paid the bulls off to storm the building. Pulitzer's pissed," Jack answers, and I stare at the far wall. 

"Who's hurt?" My lips barely move. 

Jack and Spot share a look. 

"Crutchie, Joy... lots of people." Jack mutters, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. 

"Who's in the Refuge?" I ask, and the this time they each have to take a deep breath before answering.

"Race, Smalls. Ginger. Sketch." Spot answers this time, and I look at the three of them. 

"How long have they been there?" I ask. 

"A few hours. It's been five hours since it happened." Blink says, and I nod. 

That means it's six in the morning. I look at Jack and Spot, then at Blink. I will myself to touch my bare feet to the floor; I'm still in the dress from last night. I take slow breaths while Spot and Blink appear at either side to help me walk. 

"It's fine, I can walk," I mutter, stumbling over to the bathroom. The boys continue holding onto my hands to help me walk. I look at myself in the Blood Sink mirror, taking in my injuries. 

Obviously my rib and the raging headache were the first I noticed, but my injuries look worse than I thought they would.

The sides of my neck are covered in blood, and upon touching the back of my neck, it's also streamed in the congealed red. My eyebrow has a gash and my neck has more bruises, my collarbone is crooked and, looking closer at my wrist, I find it's out of place as well. 

I turn and move to the stall where my normal clothes hang, and I quickly duck into the stall to change into them. 

Looking down at my body, I see my stomach and chest are littered with bruises. 

One is shaped like a shoe print. 

I blink tears from my eyes, wiping them quickly off my cheeks, before slipping into my white shirt and wide brown pants. I slip the familiar gray socks back on, and I take the huge black and white flannel, deciding not to put it on just yet.

I step back out, leaving the dress hanging over the stall door. 

No offense to Katherine, none at all. But I never want to look at that dress again. 

Blink has left the bathroom, leaving Spot to lean against the Blood Sink alone, his mouth covered by his hand. 

I walk over to the sink, and Spot looks at me. 

"Can you wash the blood off my neck?" I ask, and he nods, silently moving away from the sink. He tilts my head to look down, wetting a rag with cold water. He gently scrubs the back of my neck until there's no sign that anyone pulled my hair. 

"There." He says softly, washing the rag off, and I thank him with a kiss on the cheek before slipping into the flannel, buttoning it up. 

We face each other again, and, as if reading my thoughts, he opens his arms. I walk into them, closing my eyes. 

I make a mental note to kill Ghost Rogers.

That's a fucking promise.


	14. chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry, i screwed something up in posting chapters somehow. here's the 14th chapter, the 15th that some of you read last time i posted is actually supposed to be the next one. sorry ;-;

"Cass, seriously. You need sleep." I hear Race behind me. I look over my shoulder to find him with Spot; both of them look annoyed with me. Spot has his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw is squared, while Race has a hand on his hip while he smokes his cigar. The smoke streams up to the unlit stage lights of the theatre.

I don't blame them. 

I exhale before turning back to the painting in front of me; a hand clenched over a white-gold crown, dripping with red on one side. The wrist of the figure has the words 'Ghost Rogers' written in small letters, and a red ruby tattoo-like symbol painted on the inside of the wrist.

It pales in comparison to Jack's painting regarding Pulitzer during the strike, what with the foot snuffing out the working kids of New York. 

It's small. It shows something.

Spot sits next to me, eyeing the painting like a soldier watches a battle. I continue touching up some parts as I listen to his steady breathing. He allows one of his arms to snake around my side and his fingers to rest against the hip bone that protrudes from my skin. Race crouches behind us, breathing smoke above our heads. I breathe some in, taking in more comfort.

An odd trio. 

"What time is it?" I mutter, sitting back as I look at the finished artwork. Spot looks from the painting to me, and then shares a look with Race, who shrugs.

Race and Spot exhale at different times but with the same exasperation. 

"11:30. It's dark out." Spot says, and I nod. 

I stand up on baby deer legs, taking the supplies and cleaning them up; I set everything clean aside for Jack to use tomorrow morning. After Race throws my boots at my face, I slip them on and silently walk with the two boys out of Irving Hall. 

Spot's fingers find mine and slowly lace themselves in, providing some comfort from last night's events. 

Jack was right; Pulitzer was furious. He saw to it himself that Smalls, Race, Ginger, and Sketch were all released from the Refuge. 

After Ace and Skip took care of everyone's injuries, Spot and Joy made sure that Ginger and Sketch were safely taken back to Brooklyn. Meanwhile, I walked up to Irving Hall with the intent to paint. 

And paint I did. 

Spot had come back from Brooklyn, leaving Joy in charge, to make sure everyone in Manhattan was safe as well. 

So here we are. 

I look up at him as we reach the lodge, and Race squeezes my shoulder before he steps inside from the cold. I give him a single nod before he disappears up the stairs and into the room. 

"How are you feeling?" Spot asks, taking my other hand. He watches my eyes under the lamplight, and I shrug with my good shoulder. 

Truth be told, no newsie that was in the ballroom last night has been doing well. Here in 'Hattan, everyone's been quiet, shaky, nervous. 

"I'm okay." I lie through my teeth, "How about you?"

Spot knows. His lips spread in a thin line, squeezing my left hand softly; my right wrist is wrapped stiff, thanks to Skip.

"I'm okay." The shift in his voice tells me he's lying, too. I bite my lip tiredly, feeling hazy. My eyelids half close as I step forward and pull the muscular boy into a hug, listening only to his heartbeat and breathing for a while. 

The white knight chess piece comes to mind, but broken into small wooden pieces. I open my eyes and look up at Spot. 

"We're both lying, aren't we?" Spot nods, exhaling. His gray eyes are exhausted; there are dark circles under his eyes, and slightly bloodshot. His lips are turning blue from the cold. 

"Come on," I tell him softly, pulling him into the lodge and up the staircase. I notice that nearly everyone's asleep, save for Race and Albert. They sit on Albert's bed and talk in hushed whispers. 

The floorboards creak under our feet, but no one wakes up. Both of us slip our boots off and climb up to get onto my bed, tired and dazed. 

Both of us just need to sleep. 

I lay down, curling inwardly, until I feel an arm wrap around my middle, hugging me from behind. Spot's other arm acts somewhat like a pillow for both of us. I close my eyes halfway, too tired to make complete movements. 

"G'night, Cass." I feel Spot kiss the top of my head, and I feel my consciousness slip soon after the pressure leaves. 

\---

The chess piece sits broken on the chess board. Other chess pieces are standing without a crack in them. I hear breathing across the table; I look up, seeing exactly who I expect to see. 

I pick up a the biggest broken piece of the small knight. I look it over, and Ghost stands from his chair, pacing around the table while I seemingly pay him no mind. 

What does it mean?

Ghost stops and looks at me, and the last thought lingers as his dark eyes burn holes through mine. 

"This can't save you now." He snarls, lunges for me, grabbing my shirt, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I brace myself.

\---

"No!" I yell, sitting up, feeling my bandages and clothes sticking to me, drenched in cold sweat. My chest rises and falls quickly, and I run my hands through my hair. 

No one stirs from their sleep, including Spot; so I pull my legs to my chest and close my eyes. 

The broken knight chess piece. 

What could that possibly mean?

How did the chess piece save me?

What's going on?

I open my eyes when a hand is placed on my shoulder, and I look up to find Spot looking down at me, concerned. 

"Nightmare?" He whispers through the dark, and I nod twice, closing my eyes. With the chess piece still in my thoughts I surprise myself by wrapping my arms around Spot tightly. 

It surprises him, too. 

A few seconds later, his hand is rubbing my back while his other arm holds me in place. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" He whispers in my ear, causing a shiver to run down my spine at the hot breath on my neck. I look up at him, biting my lip. 

"It was just Ghost again." I answer, and he nods in understanding. He brings his hand up and squeezes my good shoulder, sympathetic. 

"He can't hurt you here." Spot says softly, and my fingers tangle in the back of his shirt. He occasionally kisses the top of my head, giving a sense of comfort, and my breathing slows. 

Sleep hugs me like Spot does, and suddenly it's over. 

I wake up to the feeling of someone shaking my shoulder. I sit up and look around, finding Spot sitting up as well. He smiles. 

"There's my girl," He says, kissing my cheek gently before nearly jumping off of my bed. I smile tiredly, my thoughts still hazy as I move off my bed to stand next to him. I yawn, covering my mouth, before Spot plucks our flannels from my bed. 

I take mine gratefully when he hands it over, wrapping myself in the familiar cloth. He holds his hand up, waiting for me to take it, and I do, lacing my fingers through his. We walk downstairs as a pair, tiredly. 

"Shitty coffee?" Blink suddenly materializes at my other side with Smalls under his arm. I laugh with Spot was we walk, considering it. 

Well, on the off chance. 

"Why not," I shrug, and we turn in the direction of the nuns' cart to collect our breakfast. I take small cup of iced-over coffee, before looking up at Spot with a deadpan look. 

Spot is nearly hysterical. He's covering his mouth, failing to suppress a smile. I roll my eyes as Blink and Smalls join in. 

"Can't blame a girl for trying." I mutter as we turn the corner, arriving at the gate of the distribution center. We must have gotten up really early today. I discard the cup of coffee, and Smalls bites her lip. 

"Speaking of the nuns... I've been thinking," She starts, her arms wrapped around herself to keep her warm as she paces through the snow. No snow falls while she walks, and the lamplight above us turns her hair gold. 

"Oh, that ain't good." I mutter jokingly, earning myself a playful glare from Smalls and a little swat on my good shoulder from Blink. 

"If the bulls come at us again..." Smalls trails off as our group noticably grimaces, "We can claim sanctuary in the church." 

I look up from the snow, making eye contact with her, then with Spot and Blink. Apparently, it never occurred to any of us that we could claim sanctuary. 

Of course you can claim sanctuary. It's a church. 

"Wouldn't that mean that as soon as one of us leaves the church, they could catch us?" Spot asks, and Blink smirks. 

"The bulls don't use their rooftops either." I roll my eyes, sticking my hands in my pockets. 

"You realize the last time someone said that, you got soaked too?" I point out, raising an eyebrow, causing Smalls ans Spot to look at Blink; he shrugs it off, unbothered. 

"That was different. That's another borough. The bulls have a hard time catching us sometimes anyways." He says, and I wave his statement off, rolling my eyes again. 

"Yeah, if not for Jack and I. We're two of the only five that have been to the Refuge, remember?" I point to my sternum. Spot winces, and Smalls bites her lip. Blink nods. I bite my lip as it dawns on me that I included Smalls in that statement. 

Jack, Racetrack, Crutchie, Smalls, and I are the only five Manhattan newsies that have been in the Refuge. 

Jack and I usually get arrested every other week, bringing stolen food, medical supplies, and comfort with us. Sometimes we end up there for taking the fall for other newsies, and other times for other working kids in the city.

Crutchie and Smalls were only arrested once, and from the outside looking in, it was traumatic for both of them; but it still seems like those in the Refuge warmed up to them. Race gets arrested for soaking other people (once it was Oscar Delancey before the Delancey Redemption of September), and he never goes quietly.

After checking the time, Spot looks down at me. 

"Alright, I gotta go. I'll see you later, alright?" He says, taking my hands and kissing my forehead. I smile softly, hugging him quickly. 

"Stay safe," I say into his ear quietly. Spot squeezes my good shoulder, kisses the top of my head, and begins his walk back to Brooklyn. 

My knight in shining armor.


	15. chapter 15

No newsie I've ever met has claimed sanctuary in a church. St. Agnes church is the closest to the newsies lodge, but either the sanctuary bit was usually unknown to newsies, or we just never thought it pertained to us. However, we generally took our solace in Medda's theatre, Irving Hall. 

Morris looks me over after unlocking the gate, concern flashing over his eyes as he realizes my collarbone is set, but broken. 

"Jesus christ, what happened to you, Kelly?" He asks. I wince a little; it's been a while since Morris used my last name, and he stays silent, maybe realizing that fact as well. 

Then again, he never said my last name with the tone of concern he did just now, which does, in fact, make a difference. 

I shrug, looking at the ground, taking special interest on the red paint that speckles the bottoms of my pants. Morris puts a hand on my shoulder, and I end up looking at the tall boy in front of me. 

"What happened, kid?" He asks, like a father would to his son whom he shared a special bond with. Morris treated a lot of us like that, especially the younger newsies, but I was one of the older exceptions, for some odd reason. I'll never ask. 

"Got beat up by Ghost Rogers. Again." I mutter bitterly, and Morris's face turns grim, nodding, but still staring at the marks on my face and my neck. My flannel covers them a little, but not entirely. 

"I'm gonna send some medical supplies to the lodge after work, alright? And I've found that snow helps the injuries too." He says, before walking into the distribution center, leaving me with a grim, knowing look in the middle of the yard. I bite my lip softly, turning the words over in my head, before walking up to the counter. 

"100 papes," I tell Oscar just loud enough for him to hear, and he slides them over the counter to me. I tip my hat before stepping the stairs and onto the ice that will lead me to the harbor. I stare at the cracks in the ice before my boots step over them. 

I start hawking headlines once I reach the harbor, finding Smalls and Blink already there. It's a gloomy day, and the sky looks darker than usual. My throat starts to feel more and more scratchy with the cold air, until I finally realize that my once huge stack of papes is dwindling to a quarter of this morning's purchase.

"Cass, we're gonna head back. Do you think you'll be okay?" Blink asks, his arm around Smalls, and I nod. 

"Go ahead, lovebirds." I tease them, receiving a stuck-out tongue from Smalls and an eyeroll from Blink. We bid our goodbyes before the pair starts their trek back to the lodge. I stare at their backs until they finally reach the door, step inside, and disappear. 

A tap on my shoulder snaps me from watching my friends, and I look up to find Bluejay Lee. I grit my teeth, clenching my fist. 

He's got three separate gashes in his eyebrow, a busted nose, and a broken jaw. His sandy blond hair is messed and matted, with some blood in places and small trickles of blood run down the sides of his neck. The sight is unsettling, and I don't even know what other unjuries he has. Nevertheless, I clench my jaw and my free fist, ready to fight if necessary. 

"What do you want?" I snarl, turning to him and becoming defensive. He puts his hands up in defense as well, eyes wide.

"I came to warn you." He says, and I set my jaw, unmoving. My feet stay glued to the ground. Whatever it is that he wants, I don't care. 

"Cass?" He asks, and I furrow my brows. 

"What?" I snap, glaring. If looks could kill, he'd have died five times over. 

He doesn't flinch. Bluejay takes a deep breath, stepping closer. I tense up, staring up at him. I don't even know what to do; the last time Bluejay came into Manhattan, I didn't know what to expect, but I paid for it. 

I'm not going to this time. 

"Sparrow and Ghost have something planned, and they're going after Spot, tonight." Bluejay says, and I clench my fist, digging my nails into my skin. There's a chance that he's lying, but there's the chance that I should take his word. 

"Why should I trust you?" I sneer, narrowing my eyes at him, and he exhales. He looks conflicted, rubbing his face, before looking back down at me. 

"Because, Sparrow and Ghost have been making threats to their allies and their newsies for their loyalty. I'm tired of watching more people get hurt, so I came to warn you." He says, his hazel eyes looking desperate. I bite my lip, looking down at my papes, before hearing someone call my name. 

I turn around to find Spot walking towards us, a confused expression on his features as he stares Bluejay down. 

"The hell are you doing here?" Spot fires, obviously ready for a fight. I notice his clenched fist, and Bluejay swallows. I move to stand between them. 

"Bluejay came to warn us." I tell Spot, and he spares me a glance. He looks back at the other boy, exhaling. Bluejay stays silent, obviously nervous.

"Well?" He waves a hand, and Bluejay bites his lip, hard, and I notice blood. 

Jesus christ, this kid is shaking in his boots.

"Ghost and Sparrow, they're making threats to newsies in the Bronx and Queens to keep them under their thumbs," Bluejay explains. I notice our skin starting to turn blue, and Bluejay sticks his bruised knuckles into his pockets, sighing. 

"So what's this warning?" Spot asks, looking accusatory. Bluejay takes another deep breath. 

"Sparrow and Ghost have plans to come after you, tonight. They know about the key." Bluejay says, and I freeze. The key to Brooklyn, the thing that my brother and I almost drowned for. 

They know Spot has it.

Spot finally unclenches his jaw, and looks down at me, beginning to take the key from under his shirt.

"We need to talk to Jack and Pigeon. Come on," He says, taking my hand in his. He tucks the key back under his shirt and gestures for Bluejay to follow us. 

"How long have they known that Spot has the it?" I ask Bluejay, and he bites his lip, wracking his brain to remember. 

"A week or two before the party." He says. 

Pulitzer's party, that he just had to throw because of some stupid milestone that The World had achieved. I wish we hadn't gone. 

But that means that Jack and I almost died for nothing. 

Ghost and Sparrow went after Jack and I first, but why? Just to pick us off? To convince us to give up?

I think about it as we arrive at the lodge, and I look at Race, who's talking to Albert. Albert has his arm slung over Race affectionately, and Race doesn't seem to mind. 

I lean forward. 

"Hey guys, have you seen my silly jerk brother anywhere?" I ask, and Race jabs his thumb behind him to the kitchen while he chews on his cigar. 

I'm just waiting for the moment he takes a bite out of the damn thing again. It was wild when he did it last; he and Spot were still together, and Spot didn't let him hear the end of it for at least three days.

"Yeah, he's taking care of dinner. Something wrong?" He asks, and Albert shoots me a worried look as well, before their eyes fall on Bluejay. I wave off their worries. 

"He's okay, he's on our side. He came to warn us about something." I tell them, and they let their guard down just the slightest, nodding. 

I lead the boys into the kitchen, where Jack stands in front of the tiny dysfunctional stove, making a pot of soup; it smells good, surprisingly, because past experiences always taught us Jack was a horrible cook. 

"Hey, Jack?" I grab his attention from the soup, and he looks over. He gives me a smile, pulling me under his arm to give me a hug, breaking me away from Spot and Bluejay. 

"Hey. You feeling okay?" He asks, and I shrug before turning his attention to the other two boys. 

"I'm fine, but there's more pressing matters at stake," I wave a hand at them, and Jack steps away from the stove. I move over to the stove to tend to the soup, watching the steam rise and the ingredients move in circles. 

"Ghost and Spardow know that Spot has the key, and they're coming for him tonight. I came to warn you guys," Bluejay repeats his warning for the third time, and Jack waves his hands in the air. 

"Can we go one day without this shit?! Just once!" He yells in exasperation, and I wince, staring at the pot of soup, until he calms down. 

"Jack, calm down. We'll find a way out of this." I call over, and Jack looks back at me, annoyed. 

"Got any ideas, Cass?" 

I turn to them, cocking an eyebrow. 

"Actually, I do. Give me the key, and then right before he takes it, soak them. We take them and hand them over to Pulitzer, have Denton and Katherine write to Roosevelt." I explain, and Bluejay's jaw drops. 

"You can't be serious. You guys would all have to know how to fight!" He points out, and I nod at him once. 

"You think we don't?" It shuts him up, and his lips pull in a thin line. 

Jack raises his eyebrows, staring at me. Spot stares at me, thinking, trying to think of something to say. 

"You must be the craziest fucking person I've ever met." Jack mutters, rubbing his face, and Spot lets out a laugh. He takes the key off his neck, walking over to me. 

He carefully places it over my head, resting it softly. The key rests against my chest, and I look down at the one thing that the entire war revolves around. 

We're actually going through with this. 

I take a deep breath before wrapping my arms around Spot, something I'm starting to feel more comfortable doing, and he returns the embrace. 

"Okay, okay, but seriously, the animals await their food." Jack playfully pushes us out of the way, and I tap Spot's shoulder, mouthing, "Watch this."

"Not if Race bites off some more of that cigar!" I yell. 

"Dammit!"


	16. chapter 16

I look up at Jack, tired, but ready as I'll ever be. He paints little blue flowers on my arms to pass the time before we have to leave for Brooklyn; Spot watches the paintbrush move with interest. Bluejay currently is sitting with Race, Albert, and Elmer, getting his ass kicked in poker.

Bluejay's injuries have been cleaned and patched, and he seems to have gotten more comfortable in 'Hattan. Elmer, like usual, has already warmed up to him. 

I had painted little blue flowers on Jack's arms just after we ate; we still have a little bit of time to spare before we leave. 

Our conclusion earlier was to pass the time, until a few hours before midnight. We'd leave for Brooklyn, tell the newsies there the plan, and then, when Ghost arrives, our plan would be in action. 

Not often in winter do I let my bare arms show, except in times when Jack asks to paint my arms. It's not often, but sometimes he'll bring home paint from the theatre in a color he likes, so he asks to paint people's arms. It helps his anxiety, too, so I always let him paint on me if he asks.

Once Jack finishes, he blows on the last few bits of paint to dry them. I smile once it's all dry, wrapping my arms around him. We stay that way for a while, before he lets me go. He kisses the top of my head as he stands up, beginning his search for another newsie to paint. 

I look at Spot, who smiles, taking my hands in his as he moves to sit across from me. I take a breath, squeezing his hands lightly. 

It's almost time to go. 

Spot stands up, and I do the same, before he looks over at Jack, who has decided to paint little sunflowers on Les's hands. Davey and Les had opted earlier to stay in the lodge tonight, what wish Davey being the mother of our group.

"Hey, we're gonna head to Brooklyn." He tells them, and Les looks up at me excitedly. 

"Cass!" He beams, throwing his arms around my middle. I let out a small laugh as I hug him back. Jack nods at Spot with a bit of a grim look, while Davey simply waves and pulls Les back at the right time. 

"Good luck in Brooklyn, you two. Stay safe," Davey says, and I nod as Spot takes my hand. He squeezes our good shoulders slightly, before it's Jack's turn to bid us goodbye. 

He puts his hands on my shoulders, looking me in the eyes. I swallow thickly, and he does as well, before pulling me into him. I bury my face in his chest while he buries his in my short hair. I can tell that the both of us are making a damn effort not to cry in the middle of the lodge. 

"Stay alive, Cassandra Sullivan."

"I will, Francis."

Spot and I walk downstairs afterwards, with me biting my lip to keep myself from letting any tears fall.

Jack and I never call each other by our real names unless it's a situation like this one; where one of us could die at a moment's notice. The last time it happened was the strike last summer. 

Before that, it had been so long I had forgotten that I had a name other than Cass Kelly.

Spot keeps his arm around my shoulders as we walk through the snow. We're not in too much of a hurry, since we have a few hours before Ghost apparently arrives in Brooklyn. 

Spot yawns occasionally, and we bump into each other sometimes. I look up at him, biting my lip, a question nagging at me. 

"Is this a good idea?" I ask, and he looks down at me, raising an eyebrow.

"What? You having the key?" Spot asks, and I nod, still biting my lip harshly; I taste blood. I make an effort not to look back up at him, but I can't resist. 

"Yeah. You're a fast girl, and- is your lip bleeding?" He reaches his hand forward, wiping the blood from my lip and just below my skin. I feel heat rush to my face. 

For once, thank god it's dark out. 

He laughs, and I look away to keep walking, before I feel him grab my hand. He pulls me back towards a street lamp, a huge grin painted on his face. I smile back, happy because he seems excited about something. Spot doesn't usually smile like this all the time. 

"I wanna ask you something," Spot starts, and I feel my eyes grow wide. He holds my jaw in his other hand, causing me to panic slightly. 

He's never done that before.

His smile dies down a little, but it's still there. He moves his hand to my shoulder. 

"Better?" Naturally, my heart melts; he sounds tired, but also incredibly happy. I nod, smiling a bit.

"What'd you want to ask me?" I ask, my face contorting in confusion, and the corner of Spot's lips tug upward a little. I realize how close we are; the last time we were this close was in the lodge, when Spot first called me his girl. 

My nose is inches from his lips. 

He clears his throat before squeezing my hand softly. 

"Can I kiss you?" 

The question causes my eyes to grow wide and my heart to race. I close my mouth, and then open it again, before closing it once more. Needless to say, the question throws me completely off guard. Is this too much at one time? This has never happened before. 

Fuck it.

I push myself onto my toes, leaning forward slightly and I connect my lips with his. Spot's hand moves back to my jaw, holding it softly. My free hand moves up to hold his arm. 

He pulls away first, and I look up at him. 

It didn't feel like fireworks, like Mush and Albert and Race said it would. Race said that his first kiss with Spot "felt like magic."

But it was new, and I felt safe. I think that's all I really need for it to have been good.

"So that's why Mush always tells first kiss stories." I mutter, causing Spot to laugh, and I join him. He kisses my forehead, and with me under his arm, like a bird under another's wing, we walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and into the borough. 

When we reach the lodge, Spot calls all the newsies into the room to get their attention. 

"Alright, everyone, listen up. We have a plan to end the borough war." Spot announces, earning the statement a round of cheers from the boys and aome girlsies around us. I smile. 

If I'm honest, that information didn't really sink in until someone said it. 

"So what's the plan?" Sketch yells from the back, Ginger under his arm. Spot and I share a glance before he continues. 

"Well, Ghost Rogers is coming into Brooklyn tonight, to steal the key to Brooklyn." He says, causing everyone to pull faces that display a mixture of annoyance and despise. 

"So Cass has the key for the night. She's our distraction." Spot says, causing some newsies to nod in agreement while others continue holding blank expressions. 

"When Ghost and Sparrow follow Cass, some of you'se guys and I'll follow them." 

"And what happens if they catch her?" Another newsie, Flash, asks, crossing his arms and looking at Spot in an accusatory way. Spot smiles, looking down at me. 

"You tell 'em." He says, nudging my good shoulder, and I raise my eyebrows. 

"Well-"

"Didn't he catch you twice?" Flash asks suddenly, stepping closer to me. I set my jaw, stepping forward and reciprocating his energy. His blue eyes challenge mine while I place my hands on my hips. 

"He had help." I answer, earning me raised eyebrows from Flash. He looks at Spot, sticking his index finger in my face. 

"You sure we can trust this kid?" He asks, and I feel Spot's eyes on me. I look over at Spot swatting Flash's hand out of my face. I notice Spot's smirk before he nods. 

"Yeah, I'm sure. C'mon. Little Old Rogers'll be here any second." He says. Some newsies head to the roof, and some take the littles to the basement to keep them safe. Other newsies stay in the room to protect the rest of the lodge. 

"Hey, you okay?" Spot asks, and I nod. It's not a total lie.

I've noticed the disconnect since we got closer and closer to the Brooklyn lodge; I know Spot doesn't want to show that he has any weaknesses. 

I can deal with that. 

A bang on the door causes me to jump slightly. Spot's face turns grim, while every newsie is alert. 

My hands are shaking and clammy as I move the door handle, and Spot begins running upstairs. I slip out into the cold again, coming face to face with the familiar yet unsettling combination shock of white hair and freckles. 

Ghost Rogers lays his eyes on the key around my neck. His pure black eyes flit back and forth between my face and the key.

"Ugh, you again." He says in disgust. I roll my eyes, blowing a piece of my hair out of my face. 

"Could say the same for you." I mutter, pushing him backwards slightly to give me more space. I find Sparrow behind him, with his long jagged scar and cat-like green eyes. 

As usual. Gotta have your henchman everywhere you go. 

Could never be me.

"The key." He expectantly holds his hand out, as if coming here he thought it would just be that easy. I smirk. 

"Oh, this?" I pick it up from my chest, looking at the key in wonder, "You want this little old thing?"

Ghost moves his hand as if to say, 'hand it over.'

I walk to my right, stopping ehen I reach the alleyway where we found the little boy who got soaked. I turn my head to look down the alleyway, remembering the night. That same night, Pigeon had come to tell us that Newark was on our side.

I turn to my left, my body facing the street while my face is turned to Ghost and Sparrow. My smirk is a ghost of an expression under the lamplight.

"Come and get it."


	17. chapter 17.

My legs feel like lead as they move across the ground, leaping over the patches of ice littering the sidewalk. I don't pray often, but this time I ask that I don't slip. 

I pray that I live to tell the tale. 

I heard once that the human femur is stronger than concrete. It feels insane to me, that my ribs can crack and shift and break while my femur could withstand the weight of my body. 

I feel it in my hips every time the sole of my boots hit the ground. My breathing becomes more shallow, more uneasy. 

My broken ribs don't make this any easier. 

I begin to wonder whether Ghost's footprint on my skin has started to heal, whether the black splotches within the purple have started to fade. 

Whether I will ever be able to look at that spacenon my chest again without grimacing or thinking about that night. 

My lungs suck in their breath, and I ask them not to fail me. 

"Keep your shit together," I mutter under my breath to them as I continue my full sprint down yet another unfamiliar street in Brooklyn. 

Maybe I'd know where I'm going if Jack let me come here more often. 

I keep running. 

I realize the sky is completely dark. There are no clouds in the sky tonight. 

Every star is visible. 

Every time I glance up, I point out another star, to make my way towards. 

This is my distraction. 

"You're gonna be sorry, Kelly!" Ghost yells amidst his profanities, and I grimace as I keep my eyes ahead. 

"Cass!" I hear someone yell; I look up to a rooftop to find Pigeon. 

"Pidge!" I yell with a smile, skidding suddenly into an alleyway; my foot slipped sideways on a patch of ice. 

I feel my cheek split open wider as I hit the ground, causing another yell to escape me. I push myself up, deciding to forget about the blood, and I dust myself off while I continue to run. 

"Think you'll get caught?" Pigeon asks, and I shake my head as he runs across rooftop after rooftop, keeping up with me while I'm on the ground. 

Over Ghost's screamings of bloody murder, I smirk. 

"Not a chance, Pidge."

Not a fucking chance. 

I suddenly hear a whistle, and I freeze. My head reels as I duck into the darkness of an alleyway, breathing heavily. 

"Shit," I hiss, poking my head around the corner. Ghost's screams have gotten louder. 

"She's in there!" 

"Sullivan!"

I look for a fire escape, and I climb it as fast as I can. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a bull running down the alleyway. 

Pigeon grabs my wrists, yanking me up anf forward onto the rooftop. We use his momentum to keep running. 

"Come catch me now, Rogers!" I yell with a smirk, sticking my tongue out and waving my hands at the sides of my head. 

He has to keep following us for this plan to work. 

"Up there!" A bull yells, just as Pigeon and I jump over another alleyway. 

"Come on! Spot and the others are up there!" He points, and I see them. A considerable number of Brooklyn newsies stand anxiously on the roof of a building just ahead. 

There are seven buildings between us. 

"I'll kill ya, Kelly!" Ghost yells, and something flies up in front of my face, something shiny. Pigeon skids to a stop, grabbing my hand and pulling me backwards against him. 

My eyes travel along the ground, finding a small, shiny knife laying on the ground of the roof. 

"Oh, he wants to play catch, huh?" I snarl, rolling up my sleeves and marching over to the knife. I pick it up, turning it over in my hand. 

It fits in my hand nicely, and the handle it a marble white color; like a chess piece. 

"Do you even know how to throw a knife?" Pigeon asks me, and another shiny object is thrown up to the roof. He hits the floor, pulling me down with him. The air in my lungs feels forced out of them; another knife lays on the ground. 

I crawl over, picking it up. It's black this time with green ink on some parts. 

I shrug. 

"How hard can it be?" I mutter, quickly pushing myself up to lean over the edge of the roof, throwing the knife with a flick of my wrist. 

Pigeon takes the other one, pushing me towards the other edge of the roof, jumping with me. 

"Run run run run run," he mutters as we make two more jumps, before a Brooklyn newsie calls out, "Pidge, look out!" 

I turn around a split second later to find a knife lodged in his side. I cover my mouth, pulling him behind a chimney, trying to keep my breathing calm. 

"Keep it in there, it'll control bleeding. You're gonna be okay," I tell him, trying to keep my voice even. My eyes drift over the injury; blood is already pooling on his shirt.

"Cass, it's okay. I have a plan." He says, pointing ahead. I turn around to find St. Agnes church. 

St. Agnes church. 

That damn church. 

Sanctuary. 

"You're gonna claim-"

"Sanctuary," We finish the sentence at the same time, and I pull my lips together, swallowing thickly. 

"Ask the nuns for help, okay?" I tell him, and he nods. 

"Stay alive, Kelly." He kisses my eyebrow, before taking a running start, and jumping across the divide. He's the distraction now. 

I am really getting tired of people telling me that.

I take several deep breaths behind the bricks of the chimney, listening for Ghost and Sparrow, but it's silent. 

It's silent, save for the whistles of the bulls going after Pigeon.

I hear a scream. 

The voice is feminine, screaming. 

"Cass! Cass, Blink, help!" 

Smalls. 

"Smalls!" I yell, coming out from behind the chimney, and I lean over the side of the building. 

Smalls, Race, Jack, and Crutchie are standing in a line, held down by Bronx and Queens newsies. 

Crutchie looks like he's passed out, and worse than he looked when he got out of the Refuge last summer. Smalls, Race, and Jack look the same. Smalls and Race look like the only ones putting up much of a fight.

My heart stops. 

They got into the Manhattan lodge. 

What happened to the littles?

Ghost looks up, finding me standing at the corner of the building. 

"Cass!"

Blink grabs my shoulder. 

He came to help. 

He looks bruised and bloodied, and his breathing is shallow. his chest looks disfigured. 

They broke his rib. 

"Come on." I tell him, and we get a headstart, jumping across the alleyway to the next building. Two buildings separate us from the rest of Brooklyn.

"Give it up, Kelly. You'll never be able to save them!" Ghost cackles, his arms spread open wide. I clench my fists, noticing the next alleyway is a lot wider than the last few we've jumped. 

"Can we make it?" Blink asks, and I nod. 

"Bet your ass." I tell him, and we go. 

We push ourselves off of the edge, and I barely land on the ball of my foot on the next roof. I stumble forward, catching myself. 

I look around, but only notice a few fingertips hanging onto the building. 

"Blink!" My voice catches in my throat as I scramble back to the ledge, my hands fumbling for his arms. His arms grip mine, and I grit my teeth, clench my jaw, strain every muscle in my body to haul him up. 

I should have done better. 

I should have done more. 

I should be stronger than this. 

"No no no no, Blink please," I mutter, still making attempts to heave him back up onto the roof. 

"Cass, let go." He whispers, and I shake my head, shaking violently. 

"No, no, you're supposed to marry Smalls, we're supposed to take her to a Virginia beach together, remember?" I finally cry. Blink smiles softly, and I feel his hands slip. 

"It's okay, Cass. She'll be okay."

His hands slip from mine, and my heart stops. 

In the distance, I hear a yell. 

"Sanctuary!"

Pigeon made it. 

"No!" My voice breaks in my throat as I see Blink fall.

Blink lands on his feet, running in the opposite direction, to a different street. "Catch me if you can, Jenkins!" He taunts Sparrow, and I feel my head reeling. My vision is blurry. 

Sparrow takes the bait, taking off in a sprint down the alleyway to the other street. He follows Blink. 

"Jump! Jump, Cass, come on!" Spot yells, and I book it. I push myself, leaping off the roof, and I land in front of the group of newsies. 

"Half of us go take care of Sparrow. The rest of us take care of these assholes. Got it?" Flash announces, and after he and Spot head for the fire escape, I follow, with three other newsiss on our trail. 

"Let them go, Rogers!" Flash snarls, and Ghost laughs. 

"Why should I?" He crosses his arms, and upon closer look, I find that they're all passed out now. 

Jack's pale blue face now makes me sick. 

I clench my jaw. 

"What do you want with us?" My voice is even, calm. My hands are clencbed at my sides. My socks are wet from the snow. 

I'm beyond angry: I'm so calm it's terrifying. 

Ghost puts on the same demeanor.

"I want you dead." 

This is where it begins and ends. 

Another voice yells, "Sanctuary!"

I lunge forward, causing a wrestle with Ghost to the ground. I grab fistfuls of his hair, lay punches whenever I see an oppurtunity. 

Someone pulls me off of him, holding me down; Ghost pins my hands and knees down, and opens his knife with a smirk. 

"Wanna see how your bones look underneath your skin, girly?" 

My eyes widen, before I thrash around, kicking him where Spot said to. He doubles over, dropping his knife. 

How concenient for me. 

I pick it up, pocketing it, and kicking him in the nose.

My anger has festered over the weeks into this. This is how it ends. 

This is where it begins and ends. 

I stand up, backing up from what I've done. 

Spot grabs my hand, pulling me over to Jack. We pull his arms over our shoulders, and I notice the other newsies handling the others; Crutchie and Smalls are laying over the backs of Flash and Joy, while Race's arms are around Sketch and Ginger's shoulders. 

It takes forever to get back to the lodge. 

"We should go to the church." Spot says after we get everyone back to Brooklyn's lodge. I lean against a wall while Rye and Stitch work on our newsies. Spot bites his lip and walks outside. 

I follow. 

I stick my hands in my pockets, wishing I had a cigarette, or a puff of Race's cigar, something to stop my shaking. 

Spot doesn't try to take my hand. 

There is one thought in our minds, and we both know it. 

This borough war is still not over yet.


	18. chapter 18.

Bulls surround St. Agnes church; upon the sight of it, my breath catches in my throat. Spot pulls me to a wall, both of us peering from the corner to watch this play out. 

"We'll stay here all night if we have to! We are arresting those damn kids!" The police chief says, and I clench my jaw. 

"We have to get them out of there." I whisper, but Spot shakes his head. 

"Not yet. They'll arrest us, too."

I bite my lip. We could just escape the Refuge, but both Blink and Pigeon have injuries. Spot and I can't carry them both, and there's no way they could both walk after tonight's events. 

"Tomorrow night?" I ask, and Spot bites his lip, nodding. 

"Let's just hope the nuns are okay with them staying that long." He says, and I exhale. 

I stick my hands in my pockets and start walking back to Brooklyn's lodge. 

Spot's footsteps catch up with mine, and after an eternity of silence, he finally talks. 

"Are you okay?" He asks, and I nod. 

"I want to check on the littles." I answer, and Spot nods. 

"I'll go with you."

"Don't you have a borough to lead?" I ask softly, and Spot bites his lip, reaching for my hand. It's comforting, still. 

"I have a girlfriend, who I love. I don't want to see you hurt again, doll," He says, stopping us and brushing a piece of my hair out of my face. 

I stare up at him, and I take another deep breath, nodding.

"Okay." 

\---

I don't know what I expected, but it definitely isn't for a pair of the littles to run out of the lodge and wrap their arms around my middle. 

"Hey, hey, you're okay now. You're safe." I tell them, making my way to kneel on the ground to hold them. 

"They were scary!" One of them, York, says, and I pull my lips into a thin line. 

"They won't ever come here again. I promise." I answer, standing up and offering my hands for them. They take them, and the four of us enter the lodge. 

"Cass!" Albert says, grabbing my arms as the littles go back to playing for a bit. 

Albert's eye is bruised and black, and there's a long cut from his mouth to his ear. The sight of it causes a sick feeling in my chest and stomach. 

"What happened?" I ask softly, and he looks like he's choking on his words. I feel my heart snap. 

He's thinking about Race. 

"They took them," He manages, and I exhale. It's strained. I lean forward, and I let him cry; he doesn't, really, but he's breathing heavily and nearly clinging to my flannel. 

"They're safe. They're at Brooklyn's lodge." I assure him, rubbing his back lightly. I hear Spot talking to Davey; someone must have gone to their tenement for help, maybe to warn them. 

"Cass? Where's Jack?" I feel a tug on the side of my flannel. I look down to find Les.

I smile weakly, and Albert looks heartbroken. I kneel in front of Les, putting my hands on his shoulders. 

"He's in Brooklyn. He's on another one of his adventures. He'll be back with more stories to tell, yeah?" I tap the underside of his chin, and he smiles excitedly, giving me a hug, before running off to tell the other littles the news.

I stand up again, and Spot places a hand on my shoulder. Albert's bresthing has steadied, and Davey looks heartbroken too. 

Jack is his best friend. He has every right to be. 

"What happens now?" Davey pipes up. I grimace, staring at the floor. I stick my hands in my pockets. 

I wish I knew. 

I don't even know if Ghost Rogers is still alive. Probably, since I didn't do much to hurt him - but still.

The cold can kill someone just as well. 

"We wait." Albert answers, and I bite my lip. The silence from the rest of us is suffocating. 

Wait for it. 

\---

I find myself on the roof, sitting on the edge with my legs dangling over the side. Spot sits down next to me. 

Neither of us say anything for a while. He snakes his arm around my shoulders, pulling me a little closer. Unsurprisingly, it's exactly what I need. 

I lay my head on his shoulder. He kisses my hair while I thread my fingers with his that are on my shoulder. 

I can feel him staring at me. I look up, and sure enough, his eyes are glued. 

"What?" I whisper, barely feeling my lips move. 

"You're so small." 

The words catch me off guard. Spot notices. He smiles a little. 

"Jack is tall. He's got broad shoulders, lots of muscle. All in all, a big guy. But then there's you. You're related, but in terms of size, you look so different." He notes thoughtfully. I bite my lip, looking back at the ground below. I guess I never thought about it that way before. 

"Yeah. I guess so," I reply quietly, leaning on his shoulder again. 

My brother is bigger than me. But he's small sometimes. 

We sleep in my bed again, for the first time in what feels like forever.

I feel him kiss between my shoulder blades softly, before sleep takes me in its arms like we're old friends.

\---

"Cass, it's boiling over."

Shit.

My hand flies to take the pot off the stove, steam rising up in my face and Davey's. I decided to help his parents with dinner tonight. 

Jack and Crutchie haven't improved at all. Smalls and Race, however, have gotten better and come back to the lodge. 

Albert was esctatic about Race being back in the lodge. But telling Smalls that Blink claimed sanctuary in St. Agnes wasn't easy. 

Spot went back to Brooklyn in the morning after walking Davey, Les, and I back to the tenement. 

Pulitzer gave us the day off at Katherine's request. And so did the rest of the papers. They gave us each fifty cents, which is actually really good for dinner.

I've had some saved up anyways, so I used the fifty cents and another dollar to get some food for the Jacobs. I found out they didn't usually make spaghetti, and I know a good recipe.

I think Davey can tell I'm distracted. 

"Are you okay? You seem... off." He points out, and I shake my head, draining the noodles and adding them to the sauce, finally.

"It's just the borough war, is all." I mutter, mixing the noodles and sauce together. He nods, pulling his lips into a thin line and taking over the food. 

"I can tell it's not just that. I saw how you were with the strike and at the beginning of the borough war, but this isn't it." He says, and I exhale, leaning against the counter. 

I should have been stronger. 

"It was supposed to end last night." I mutter to myself bitterly, getting the plares from a cabinet. Davey's parents went to the theatre. Sarah and Les sit on their bed, Sarah doing her sewing. 

Davey sighs, turning around to take the plates from my hands.

"You can't do everything on your own, Cass." He answers, putting the food onto the plates. 

I bite my lip. 

I guess he's right. 

\---

I sit on the steps of the lodge, watching more snow fall. It's only an hour or two before I leave to help Spot and Flash get Pigeon and Blink out of St. Agnes.

It's mid-December, and the borough war still hasn't ended. 

It's been quiet, but it hasn't ended. 

Staten Island's leader, Sunny Campbell, sent a note earlier while I was at the Jacobs' tenement. 

"Cass Kelly -

We have put it to a vote. You, Jack Kelly, Pigeon O'Connell officially have Staten Island's newsies on your side in this borough war. If there is anything we can do to help, we have willing volunteers on standby.

Yours sincerely, 

Sunny Campbell"

The note was passed around the lodge, and then sent to Brooklyn. Sure enough, it was her handwriting and all.

Sunny Campbell is a total sweetheart; she's got lemon-colored hair, a tooth gap, loads of freckles. She has a generally good personality, hence why everyone calls her Sunny. She moved up in Staten's ranks pretty easily.

It was comforting to know that we have them on our side, now. 

"Cass?"

I look up to find Smalls, moving to sit down next to me. She takes my hand, and I squeeze it lightly. 

"How're you feeling?" I ask her, and she shrugs. 

"So-so." She whispers. I nod as she lays her head on my shoulder. 

I can tell she misses Blink. They've been joined at the hip since anyone could remember. 

They were best friends even when Jack and I got out of the Refuge. I became their third Musketeer over time. 

"He wanted to save you." I tell her, brudhing a piece of hair out of her eyes. They're filled with sadness, and hurt. 

"He did?" She glances up, and I smile softly, nodding. 

"Of course he did. He loves you." 

The words hit her hard, and I can tell. She smiles weakly, looking at me. I smile weakly back. 

"You really think so?"

"Have you seen the way you two look at each other?" I crack, and she laughs a little. 

"Thank you."

"No probs."

I should have been strong enough.

\---

There is no good way to walk on the roof of a church. Your footsteps feel louder than they are, and you slip easily; especially because of the snow and ice.

Spot, Flash, and I reach a balcony of St. Agnes and slip inside through a door, making our way through the long hallways. 

"You two! Newsies!" Someone yells, and the two of us whirl around to find a young nun, maybe our age, at the end of the hallway. 

"Sister, we're just looking for-" Spot starts, and she cuts him off with a wave of her hand. She smiles, and I can tell she has a witty humor in her eye.

"Your two friends. Yes, yes, come quickly," She ushers us down more hallways, through a series of doors, and into a small room; the basement. 

Pigeon and Blink sit on cots, with supplies scattered everywhere. 

"You just had to treat this basement like the lodge, didn't ya," I snarkily remark as I help Blink up. He rolls his eyes, pushing my shoulder lightly. Spot and Flash help Pigeon up; both boys seem fit to walk. 

"Yeah, yeah. How do we get out?" Pigeon asks, and I roll my eyes. 

"Hold your horses, alright?"

"The police, including Snyder, have surrounded the church. They've made attempts to break in. They won't leave unless one of you offer yourselves, even if you all escape." A man says from next to the nun who led us down here. 

Elder Orville.

I suck in a breath. 

"So they've declared war on St. Agnes," Flash says, completely unprompted, causing some of us to grimace. The nun and the priest leave, mentioning something about leaving us to our thoughts.

Snyder's been after me for forever, so why not. 

"I'll go." I mutter, before Spot grabs my hand and Blink gives me a disbelieving look. 

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" The words fly from Blink's mouth, one eyebrow raised.

"Blink, you're in a church." I mutter, and Spot tightens his grip on my hand. It's not enough to hurt, but it's noticable. I look up at him, and he stares down at me like a hawk. 

He knows something I don't.

"Sorry," Blink throws a hand up, annoyed, "But you know how bad the Refuge is. Your brother would kill you if he found out you went back."

I bite my lip, sighing tiredly. 

"Well, he's in Brooklyn and he's not doing so well anyway. So it's not like he'll care." I mumble, and Spot exhales. 

"Jack cares, Cass. He named you leader of Manhattan."


	19. chapter 19.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: major character death, depression.
> 
> A/N: i'm sorry in advance.

Jack Kelly named a new leader of Manhattan.

And that person is me. 

Father Orville came to a compromise and said he would deal with the legal proceedings alongside Pulitzer against the bulls.

Us five newsies officially walk freely across the rooftops of Brooklyn back into Manhattan, mostly unscathed. 

"How's Smalls?" Blink asks, and I smile a little, nodding my head once. 

"She'll be more than esctatic now that you're home." I put a hand on his shoulder, and he visibly lights up. He can't keep his now growing smile off his face as we climb down a fire escape near Brooklyn's lodge. 

"We'll check on Jack and Crutchie, and then I'll walk you guys home. Sound good?" Spot suggests, and I nod, feeling warm in my chest for once against the cold. 

A small feeling of dread washes over me as Spot opens the door. Sketch and Ginger pull us inside urgently, and from the worried expressions on their faces, my heart sinks and an ache fills my chest instead of the warmth.

"What is it?" I ask Sketch, and he looks from me, to Spot, and then back to me again. 

"It's Jack."

I swallow thickly as I squeeze my way through the lodge. Stitch kneels next to Jack's cot that they've set up. Crutchie's improbing drastically; he sits next to Jack's cot as well. 

Crutchie looks up at me worriedly.

Jack looks discolored and weak. 

He looks small.

Spot looks as though he's about to be sick, and Blink grimaces, looking away. Pigeon covers his mouth with his hand, blinking away tears. 

"Jack?" I sit on the floor next to him and Crutchie, taking his hand, and I squeeze it lightly. I feel a soft squeeze back. 

"Cassandra," He smiles weakly, and I smile back as much as I can muster. Crutchie exhales shakily; it's clear to both of us that he's trying not to cry. 

"You're gonna be just fine." I tell him, leaning forward. I squeeze his hand again, and he nods his head.

"You're gonna be the best leader 'Hattan's ever seen, Cassandra." He says, letting go of my hand and ruffling my hair. My eyes close tightly, tears escaping down my cheeks. 

"That was always you, Francis." I whisper as he takes my hand again. 

"I love you, Cassie." He never calls me Cassie. He used to when our mom was alive, when our dad didn't steal food to keep us alive. More tears fall down my face. The ache in my chest has gotten worse. 

"I love you too, Francis Sullivan." 

He doesn't get to hear it. 

Francis Sullivan is already gone. 

\---

My shaky hand knocks on the large looming door in front of me. Someone opens the door, in a full suit. 

"How can I help you, sir?" I exhale, still shaking as I hold up a small envelope with messy scrawled handwriting on it. 

"I'm here to see Joseph and Katherine Pulitzer, please." I answer in as clear a voice I can muster. It comes out barely above a whisper. 

The man takes the envelope, nodding and inviting me inside. 

"Right this way, Ms. Kelly." 

I follow the man up three sets of staircases, and to another large, looming door. 

He knocks thrice on it using the gold knocker, and a call from Pulitzer allows us inside. 

"Ms. Kelly is here to see you, sir." 

"Well, let her in," I hear the old man say in an exhausted tone. I step forward, and Katherine stands up from a chair near the desk, walking over to me. 

She's crying, silently. The auburn-haired beauty takes my hands in hers, squeezing them, before taking me in a hug. 

"I'm so sorry, Cass." She sobs, and I rub her back lightly. I do my best to keep myself from crying as well. I can't cry in front of my boss, and I sure as hell can't cry in front of my brother's girlfriend.

Once we regain ourselves, Pulitzer walks over, extending his hand. I clench my jaw, shaking it firmly. His eyes are filled with sadness and sympathy. 

"I secretly liked that young man. I hope your life treats you well, young lady." He says, and hands me a small black leather pouch. 

Pulitzer gestures to it, and I open it quietly. 

Inside, there is five dollars.

"For his funeral." He says, and I look back up at him, nodding. 

"Thank you for your kindness, sir." I tell him, my voice coming out shaky, exhausted, and most of all, heartbroken. He nods once; I take that as my signal to leave. 

I make it to an alleyway five streets down, before I break. 

I lean against the wall, and the aching in my chest takes over. I cover my mouth to muffle any noise I could make. 

After ten minutes, there's nothing left. 

I stand up, straightening my flannel and wiping my eyes. 

My feet take me back to the lodge. 

Crutchie and I don't say a word to each other, but it seems as though we know exactly what the other is thinking. 

I hand him the pouch, knowing he'll take care of it. Race squeezes my shoulder as I move past him. I offer a weak smile. 

My body feels numb to everything and everyone. 

This is my borough. 

I still have to lead. 

\---

Telling Davey is probably the worst thing I've ever had to do. 

The entire Jacobs family loved Jack, down to the very sparkle of his blue eyes. 

Davey and Sarah both instantly looked as though their entire world had been taken away from them. In a way, it has been. Davey looks more angry than sad.

Les denies it. 

It breaks my heart.

At the end of the afternoon, I find myself sitting on the floor with the three of them, sobbing and recalling memories with them. 

The rally. Convincing him to continue the strike. The things he painted on our arms. Everything. 

It's too much. 

\---

Miss Medda sits me down in a dressing room with some coffee and fresh bread. She hugs me and sits with me, letting me cry for as long as I need to. 

I can't drink more than a sip of coffee before I feel sick. The chocolate squares go untouched.

"You are always welcome here, darling. Always." She says, and I smile weakly. 

"Thank you, Miss Medda. You're a gem." I tell her, and she pulls me into another hug. 

I watch a show that night with Katherine, Bill, and Darcy. We make small talk while she takes little notes. She shows me a eulogy she's written.

My voice fails me when I try to tell her it's beautiful. My cheeks are wet again with tears.

Our eyes are puffy as we leave Irving Hall, arms linked. Bill and Darcy offer me their condolences. 

I nod before bidding them goodbye. 

I walk back to the Manhattan lodge alone, numb again. 

I can't force myself to breathe. 

\---

I lay on my bunk in the middle of the night, crying silently. I stare at the ceiling, the same one that Francis had joked about painting. 

I sit up, pulling my legs to my chest. 

Crutchie told me once this week, that he couldn't bare to look at me. 

I look too much like him.

Katherine, Sarah, and Davey have avoided looking at me at all this week as well. I've noticed; I may be oblivious sometimes, but I'm not stupid. 

My arms will never feel blue paint on them again. 

I'll never be able to hug him again. 

My silly, sarcastic, bright-eyed, blue-eyed older brother. 

He never saw eighteen. 

He never got to see Santa Fe. 

I grip the flannel on my back tightly. My knuckles turn white.

I keep my mouth pressed to my knees so no one can hear. 

\---

I push myself up out of bed. 

The borough war has been quiet for two weeks. It's now Christmas, Yule, etc. The Jacobs invited me to theirs for Hanukkah earlier this month, which was warm and bright and happy and sad and awful all at the same time. 

Les didn't look at me at all. 

Mr. Jacobs said that he wished Jack could be there to celebrate with us as well. It was a nice thought at first, but after a while the idea just became more and more depressing. 

I walk down to the distribution center with Blink and Smalls. The two make small talk while I stay silent.

Spot and I haven't seen much of each other in the past two weeks. We've both got boroughs to lead, and maybe he thinks I just want space. 

Really, I just want someone to hold me and tell me things will be fine. 

I can't do this on my own. 

I buy my papes, and our trio makes its trek to our selling spot at the harbor. 

Jack's funeral is one of my worst memories. Pulitzer picked out a headstone and everything. 

Katherine could barely make it through her eulogy; Sarah had to hug her and talk her down. 

I finished it. I felt numb enough to not feel the words I was saying anyway. 

I don't remember at all what I said about him. 

Thank god it was an open casket funeral, because I could see him again. 

A few hours before the funeral, I had gone to the church where the service was being held, with a paintbrush and a bucket of blue paint. 

I painted blue flowers on his face. 

I took another paintbrush, brand new, and placed it in his hands, over his chest. 

Headlines were the worst.

They've gotten better over time, but not by much. 

There's a perpetual ache in my chest. 

My fingers tingle slightly over the course of a few hours. 

"Will you be okay if we head back?" Blink asks, Smalls's hand in his. I nod with a ghost of a smile.

They squeeze my shoulders - something that no one has done in a long time - and start walking back to the lodge, hand in hand. 

They slowly disappear. 

"Hey, Cass."

I turn around to find messy dark hair and gray eyes. A boy around five inches taller than me, standing next to the lamp post.

"Hey, Spot." I whisper. 

He walks over, and I wait for it. 

Spot presses his lips to my forehead, squeezing my shoulder. I close my eyes, feeling my hand slip into his other one. 

"I missed you." I whisper again.

His gray eyes are marked with a sad darkness. Purple moons have been stamped under his eyes. 

"I'm here to stay." He promises, squeezing my hand. It's reassuring.

I smile weakly. 

Maybe things will be okay.


	20. chapter 20.

It's New Year's Eve. No one is really feeling all that festive. 

Blink said something last night that sort of stuck with me into today. 

He said, "You're officially the youngest newsie leader in New York." 

It didn't make me feel better about anything. Maybe worse. But it's a true fact; Sunny Campbell used to be the youngest. Ghost is the oldest, and Francis was right behind him. 

News came last night that Ghost was severely injured, but he was alive. 

I've become numb to everyone and everything. 

My mind hasn't fully wrapped around the fact that Ghost and Sparrow killed Francis. 

Spot pulls me into his room once we reach the lodge, pulling out a small, silver tin, and something paper. 

He walks back over to me from across the room, and places the paper object in my hands. 

Taking a closer look, I realize that the little paper item in my fingers is a pale, blue, little flower. 

My eyes well with tears again. This has been happening quite a lot the past few days. I don't usually cry this much in a week. 

Even during the strike and the first part of the borough war, I didn't exactly cry too much. The last time I cried like this was when Crutchie was taken to the Refuge, and even then I didn't cry this much. 

Crutchie and I still haven't spoken a word to each other. No one mentions Francis around us, ever.

I look up at Spot, biting my lip. 

"Did you make this?" I ask softly, and he nods a little, wiping tears from my eyes.

"I had some help from Sketch." He whispers, and I nod, looking down at the flower again. 

I make a mental note to thank Sketch later for it. It's thoughtful. Nobody said anything about the blue flowers I painted on my brother's face, but they thought it was suitable. 

Les learned how to pickpocket and steal from Race, I assume. One night when I went to visit Francis, I found an array of blue flowers laid over the dirt.

I feel Spot's arms wrap around me, and I let myself melt a little. 

This hole won't ever be filled. 

"I'm sorry, doll." Spot smooths my hair, and I let it out. 

The sob I let out is probably heartwrenching; I feel him tense up, and I don't blame him. I haven't cried in front of him like this, ever. I never planned on it. I don't think he ever thought something like this would happen, either. 

At least, not so soon.

He lets go for a second, taking the paper flower gingerly from my fingers and places it on his bed before pulling me back into a hug. 

My fingers grip his shirt tightly, and I don't realize I'm shaking for a few minutes. 

It's too much. 

"I can't do this," I choke out, my eyes feeling puffy as I keep them shut tight. Spot exhales, pulling away from me and tilting my chin up. 

"Cass, look at me," He says when I don't open my eyes. I open them, and he smiles softly, wiping the tears from them.

"You are one of the strongest, most badass girlsies I've ever met in my life. I know it seems hopeless, but I promise you, that you are going to get through this." The words are comforting, and I take a deep breath. 

"What if I don't?" I wonder out loud, and Spot smiles, taking my hands. 

"You will. And I will be here every step of the way for you." I smile a little, squeezing his hands softly. He smiles a little wider, squeezing them back. 

"I miss your smile." He whispers, taking me in his arms again. I smile a little wider, before feeling guilty. My smile dims. 

"Of course, you're allowed to grieve." Spot says, pulling away a little, and I nod, sticking my hands in my pockets. He keeps his hands on my shoulders. I stare up at him while he stares down at me. 

He has little freckles dotting his face. He's built like how Francis was, with broad shoulders and muscle and all. The ghost of the smile on his face is comforting. 

Spot Conlon is undoubtedly beautiful; not just in the way most people would think. Not in the rough-and-tumble, "I'll kick your ass," sort of way. He's beautiful in the way that you would think an angel would look. 

An angel the gods created themselves.

I've always known it. I always thought so. I think in this moment, my mind can wrap around it better. 

"There's something." He turns suddenly towards the small, silver tin box sitting on his bed. He opens it, letting an even smaller, shiny object fall into the palm of his hand, followed by a long, thin chain.

I watch curiously, and Spot straightens the chain before looking at me, and opening his palm to me. 

Inside it sits a tiny flowet with small, sparkling stones inside of it. They're blue.

My jaw drops. 

"Spot, I-"

"Before you say anything, Jack asked me to give it to you. He said that blue flowers were your favorite, so a bunch of us pitched in the money to get it for you." Spot says, a hint of melancholy in his voice, and I smile weakly. 

"You guys didn't have to." I tell him softly, placing a hand on his chest. He smiles, placing his free hand oved mine. 

"We wanted to."

He turns me to face a small, broken mirror on the wall, before placing it over my head, and letting the flower rest on my chest. 

I look down at it, smiling softly. 

"Thank you." I tell him, turning around and wrapping my arms around him. I feel his arms lock around me, one of his hands in my hair again. 

"I love you, doll."

"I love you too."

This is the first time we've really said that. 

\---

It's a quarter to midnight.

Jacobi's letting us hang out in the restuarant for the night, with his daughter running the place.

Her name's Thalia, and she's real sweet. She's around Kath's height, and I've noticed her and Crutchie blushing while they're talking. 

She puts a hand on my shoulder when Spot and I walk in. 

"I'm sorry about Jack." She tells me, and I nodded, squeezing her hand. 

"Thanks, Thalia." I offer a small smile before Race, Spot, and Sketch pulled me away to play card games and drink - get a load of this - champagne. 

Freaking champagne. 

The color of champagne is like a really muted gold. 

I take one sip, and I can't help but smile a little. 

Francis would've loved this; maybe he did have it once. I hope he did. 

Champagne tastes, I imagine, how stars would. 

By the time Race and I beat Spot and Sketch for the third time, the countdown is happening. 

Everyone's out walking, watching the huge clock down the street. 

Fifteen seconds. 

The newsies of Manhattan and Brooklyn are quickly moving for the door, onto the sidewalk. Rich passersby give us the side-eye as we block their way. 

Kath and Sarah are holding hands, which makes me smile a little. So are Race and Albert, and Crutchie with Thalia. Blink has his arm around Smalls. 

Davey is holding hands with a girl named Cora, Race's sister, I think. I've never gotten the chance to talk to her, what with the borough war and being so busy in between now and the strike, but she seems really sweet. I can tell Davey likes her, a lot.

Some Brooklyn newsies, like Sketch with Ginger, and Fluff with Joy, hold each other in their arms as well. 

Ten seconds. 

For once, it feels warm. 

I haven't felt completely warm since Francis died. 

Spot takes my hand, looking up at the sky. 

The stars are visible. There are no clouds. 

It looks the same as it did that night. 

I swallow thickly. 

Francis isn't here to see the new century. 

"Five,"

I suck in a breath. My hands are shaking. My feet feel numb. 

"Four,"

I can't feel. 

I look up at Spot, and he pulls me into his arms. 

He knows. 

"Three,"

I try to breath in sync with him. 

"Two,"

It's not working. 

I can't feel the breath. 

My hands are still shaking. 

My feet are still numb. 

Breathe, dammit!

"One,"

Spot tilts my chin up, and I realize. 

It's this. 

The fireworks go off. 

The numb feeling leaves as soon as it came. 

I feel his lips on mine. 

My knight in shining armor. 

Suddenly, it clicks.


	21. chapter 21.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for not being consistent with updating!! i promise i'm trying :,)

There is a reason Ghost Rogers said that the chess piece couldn't save me. 

He was talking about Spot. 

Spot Conlon was the knight chess piece. It took me longer than it should have to put those two pieces together. 

I sit with Morris and Oscar Delancey in Jacobi's. Jacobi's been giving the newsies free food this month, which I know has to be hard on his business. Nonetheless, it's appreciated, and I slip Thalia all the bits of change they need to make up for it. 

Things have continued to be quiet. 

It is the middle of January, 1900. The new century. 

The new, looming, daring century that my brother will never see. 

The three of us hold hot mugs of coffee between our cold hands. Winter is still harsh, and I've come to always hate winter, no matter what. 

The date of December 27th will always cause my breath to catch in my throat. 

Telling Morris and Oscar about Francis dying is a lot different than telling Davey or visiting Katherine. I still see them, often in fact. 

Crutchie and I have started talking a little more again. Most of our conversations still end in tears. Sometimes we'll just sit together and cry for a while until we just... fall asleep. In the mornings we wake up as if it never happened at all.

Les presses butterscotches into my palms still when we go to buy papes. He'll put little blue flowers in my pockets without me knowing.

Race is usually the one to wake up when I have nightmares. 

"I know. They're the worst right after it happens," He said once, rubbing my back gently; I know where he got it from. He got it from Spot. Race spent nights in Brooklyn when he and Spot were together during the strike. 

When Crutchie was sent to the Refuge, somehow a newsie had managed to spread a rumor that he had died. Race, Francis, and I had nightmares all week. 

Race had treated me the same way Spot was treating me when I woke up in Brooklyn. 

Morris and Oscar give me their condolences before they leave. Morris pulls me into a hug, something he's never done before; I hug him back like Elmer usually does. 

Oscar gives me a nod. I'm closer with Morris than with Oscar, but I know he means well. 

I stick my hands in my pockets on the way back to the lodge. The dark of winter is starting to set in. 

I open the door quietly. The littles are probably asleep by now. I yawn a little before heading up the stairs, but someone grabs my hand; I look down to find one of the littles again, York. 

"Hey, York. What're you doing up so late?" I ask, kneeling in front of him. He smiles. 

"I know how sad you've been over Jack," He whispers, before holding out a tiny piece of paper with blue paint splotches on it. "So we made this for you."

I smile weakly, looking at the paper. In blue paint, all of the littles made flowers out of their fingerprints, and with a small pen, their names were written. Specs and Kloppmann have been teaching the littles to write for a while now; they've gotten so good at it that it blows me away.

"Thank you, York." I tell him gratefully, leaning forward to kiss the top of his head. He smiles, showing off missing baby teeth and others coming in. He hugs me like little kids always hug you; tightly, but not too tight, and it almost feels like no matter what, both of you are trying to escape. 

"Now, let's get you to bed, alright?"

\---

I keep the piece of paper in one of my flannel pockets. I lay on my bed, tired. 

Katherine told me once that maybe God needed Francis up there in heaven or some other bullshit like that. I don't care what God wanted. 

Francis Sullivan was ours. He was Katherine's. He was Sarah's. He was Davey's. He was Crutchie's. He was Pigeon's and Blink's and Race's and Medda's. 

He was mine, goddammit. 

He was my brother. 

Absolutely fuck God or whoever for taking him from us. 

From me. 

\---

I get up in the morning to Race nudging my shoulder. It's barely sunrise, so I roll over to come face to face with him. 

"Hi." I mumble, and he smiles a little. 

"Hey, Kelly."

I shrug into my flannel and hop down next to him. I trudge downstairs with my boots. 

As far as any of us know, the borough war is still going. Things have been quiet, but they felt too quiet. 

Running a borough is more difficult than it seems to be, and Jack made it look easy as hell. Whatever I can't handle, Specs or Blink have been helping out with. Race and Crutchie still help with the littles. 

I stick a butterscotch between my teeth as Race and I step outside, into the cold air again. Our breath swirls into the air like smoke and halos, while I shove my hands into my pockets. 

The two of us end up sitting on the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge. His arm is around me in his usual brotherly way, and I let myself relax enough to lay my head on his shoulder.

"How're you holding up?" He asks, and I exhale, watching the water below us slamming against the docks. 

"I don't know. I feel numb." I mumble. He finally has a cigar again, stuck between his teeth as it should be. He plucks it from them before handing it to me, gesturing for me to take a puff of it. 

I lean into him gratefully, and I do. I blow a smoke ring before handing the cigar back to him, feeling the smoke moving through my throat and lungs.

"I feel you." He says, and I bite my lip. 

"I guess I could liken it to how you and Cora would feel if either of you lost each other." I add, and Race nods once again. 

"Yeah. Just know that even if we're not all related by blood, we're all your family too, Cassie." Race says, moving his hand to my shoulder. I look up at him, and I nod. 

"Thank you, Racer."

After a few more puffs from the cigar, he helps me up, and we walk together back to the lodge. 

One thing I can't help but think; I wish I spent more time with Francis in that time of the borough war before he died. 

We were going through the war so it was understandable why we didn't have too much time together. But I wish I could've been around more often. 

\---

A knock on the door in the middle of the night beckons me from my bed. I don't bother putting on my boots, figuring it wouldn't be too big of a deal. 

I open the door to find a scrawny sailor with dull brown hair and hazel eyes. He looks frantic, almost panicked, and he grabs my shoulders almost instantly. 

"You guys have to get out of here, quick!" He yells. My eyes widen, and I grab his elbows. 

"What's going on?!"

"Bronx newsies took over the harbor. They're looking for Cass Kelly-" 

I clench my jaw, pulling him inside and slamming the lodge door. I lock it tightly, and I turn to face him. 

"How are the other sailors?" I ask, and he nods. 

"They escaped on their ships and went to Brooklyn's harbor. The Bronx newsies didn't follow them. Ghost Rogers is looking for-"

"Me. Got it. Racetrack!" I yell as I climb the stairs. 

"On it!" He yells back, and as soon as I reach the landing I find that he, Crutchie, and Specs are already helping get all of the littles out of the lodge and up to the roof. 

I look back downstairs to the sailor. 

"Can you stay here until they're all out of here and safe?"

He raises an eyebrow. 

"You're going to talk to Rogers? Alone?" He asks, sticking his hands into his pockets. 

Damn, for someone who's out of his element, he sure is nosy. 

I nod, plucking my boots from the floor and lacing them onto my feet. I stand up straight, placing my hands on my hips. 

"And what about it?"

"Don't you think you should at least have some backup?" He asks, and I raise my eyebrows. 

"And why would you want to help me?"

"We can't afford not to care in winter." 

The response hits me like a ton of bricks. I promptly walk over to the door, unlock it, and open it. I step outside, and take a deep breath. 

I turn around, finding him still standing in the middle of the room. 

"You coming, or what?"


	22. chapter 22.

"Why is this borough war a thing anyway?" He asks, and I roll my eyes. 

"Hell if I know." I answer bitterly. I didn't need someone asking questions, not now. Not while everyone is in danger. 

The harbor is getting closer, and I find Ghost Rogers with his unsettling death-like features on a set of the docks. 

"What do you want now, you pig?" I call out, putting on a cool demeanor. I did break his ribs, and he took away my brother. I'm allowed to do whatever the hell I please at the moment. 

"I'm calling a ceasefire." He calls back, and it catches me off guard. Sparrow isn't there. There aren't any Bronx newsies here, at all. 

I hear footsteps behind me. The sailor turns around, noticing them. 

"Sparrow." He whispers, and I nod. I look up at him, curious. 

"What's your name, man?"

"I'm Jack."

You can't be serious. 

I grimace, before walking forward and meeting Ghost at the docks. 

"How's your ribs, Rogers?" I quip, shifting my weight to one leg. His face contorts into one of annoyance, which paints a smirk on mine. 

"How's yours?" He fires back. I keep the smirk. 

"They're healing well. No thanks to you." I look him over, recalling the incident at the party. It seems like forever ago, but really, it was only early December. It was when the borough wars had first started. 

Ghost almost looks guilty as he sucks in a breath. 

I know better. 

"So, why the ceasefire now?" I ask, and Ghost takes a deep breath, sticking his hands in his pockets. 

"I'm gonna wait till this rib heals before I do anything more." He admits, and I clench my jaw. 

"And where was this when you killed my brother? Huh?" I notice Jack flinch, and I step forward, getting in Ghost's face. 

The Queens newsies scattered around on the docks start moving closer. 

"You killed Francis Sullivan. Mark my words, you will pay, Ghost Rogers. Maybe not now. Maybe not next week. But so help me god, I will kill you." I snarl. 

Ghost stares down at me. 

A large, muscled, ghostly boy. Still a teenager. Somehow still the leader of Queens. 

A skinny little nobody. Still a kid. Somehow the leader of Manhattan. 

What a stark contrast. 

"I'm sorry about your brother." He says. 

His eyes are sorry. 

My hand flies up to grab a fistful of his collar, pulling him a little closer. 

"It should've been you." I mutter, staring back up at him. 

No matter how sorry he felt, he knew what he was doing. 

I don't care about any of Ghosts's feelings. 

I let him go. 

"Get out of Manhattan, Ghost. Suck on your ceasefire. If I ever see you, a Queens, or a Bronx newsie around here, I will not hesitate to soak you. Neither will any of my newsies. I'm positive Spot Conlon will feel the same way." I tell him, loud enough for every newsie in the area to hear. 

"Cass-"

"Get out of my borough, Rogers." I cut him off, and he looks defeated. 

I shove my hands in my pockets, satisfied. 

I wait in that same spot until every last of their newsies is gone. 

Jack and I share a nod. 

"Are you okay?" He asks. 

"Yeah. You can stay in the lodge tonight, if you'd like." I offer, starting the walk home. 

I hear his footsteps behind me. 

"He... he killed your brother?" Jack pipes up; obviously he's trying not to pry. I nod, staring at the brick sidewalk. 

"His nickname was Jack Kelly." I admit, and Jack stays silent for a while. He nods. 

We make it to the lodge, and I let him inside. I jump the stairs two at a time, and then climb the ladder in the bedroom. 

"Okay, it's safe. Come on." The littles come running over with their arms outstretched. York jumps into my arms first. 

"Cass, you're back!" He smiles, and I smile weakly back at him. 

"I always come back, York," I ruffle his hair, before handing him to Jack, who smiles up at me. I return it.

"They're gone?" Smalls asks, and I nod, taking more of the littles, handing them to Jack in the room. 

"Yeah. And you all have my permission and encouragement to soak any Queens or Bronx newsie you see on our turf. Feel free to do as much damage as you like." I tell them. 

Everyone sports a satisfied smile. 

We stay up instead of sleeping. I don't think any of us felt like sleeping. I sure as hell didn't. 

I sit on a counter with Jack, sipping coffee. 

"You have a nice family." He comments, and I nod. 

"Incomplete. But it is nice."

\---

Today's Sunday. Race and I don't have much else to do other than head down to Sheepshead; I can watch him bet on the races and hang around. Maybe do some sketches. 

"So how are things with you and Albert?" I ask, and Race's face instantly paints itself a light pink. 

"They're great," He answers, pulling his cigar out of his pocket. I laugh a little, watching his mannerisms as I spin my pencil in my fingers. 

"So when are you gonna ask him out?" I ask, nudging his elbow. He laughs at he lights his cigar, but I can see from the twinkle in his eyes that he wants to ramble on and on about his boy. 

"I'm thinking later this week. On his birthday." My eyes widen, and he smiles as he puffs the cigar. 

"That's great!" I beam as we make it to the Brooklyn Bridge. Race grinned wider. 

Sheepshead is a place that Race used to bring me all the time when we were little. Francis (for some ungodly reason) trusted Higgins with my safety, so he'd let us run around the city as much as we pleased. 

Not a good idea, but nonetheless. We found quite a few hiding spots for the newsies, hung out in underground Irish pubs, and, of course, sat around at Sheepshead. 

"The gold one." I tell him once we get there, and Race furrows his eyebrows before finding the stallion. He nods, and makes a bet eith the man next to us when we sit down.

I begin sketching the gold stallion. It takes longer than I thought, but I'm finally finished. Francis would be proud.

Suddenly I hear Race cheering while the man he made his bet with has his face in his hands. 

"Another one." He says, and Race shakes his head. 

"I'm sorry, I only came here to make one bet. We're expected somewhere else." He says, and the man, defeated, hands over the money. 

Race and I walk away from Sheepshead, while Race is flipping through dollar bills. I glance over. 

"How much did you get?" I ask, only because his eyes are gleaming with excitement. 

"Enough for a proper meal. I'm gonna take Albert out on his birthday!" He celebrates by throwing his arms in the air. 

"Yay!" I celebrate with him, a grin staying on my face as we continue walking. 

\---

"Your hair's getting longer." Spot says, tugging on a piece of it. I look up at him, seeing his hair's also longer. 

"So's yours," I tug a piece that's in his eyes. He smiles a little. 

"I gotta cut it soon." He admits. We sit on some crates, staring out at the sunset over the water. It's beautiful; Brooklyn newsies have taken advantage of the heat spike today, going for a swim. 

I make the decision, sitting here, not to cut my hair. I'll let it grow out for a while.

The heat meant no big flannels, and walking barefoot around the city, dancing, etc. I'd joined in about three dances in front of the pubs on the walk here. 

"I can't wait for summer." Spot says with a sigh, leaning back a little with his hands to support him. I smile, too, remembering last summer. 

Even if we were in the middle of a strike, it was still filled with good memories. We danced in diners, went swimming, snuck down Pulitzer's chimney (thanks to the chimney sweeps of the city). 

Francis was there. The entire time. 

Things were different.


End file.
